


Of Sound and Fury

by potassiumPotato



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Gen, Growing Up, Kingdomstuck, M/M, Minor Character Death, Rebellion, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-08-01 15:17:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 65,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16287005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potassiumPotato/pseuds/potassiumPotato
Summary: Your name is Dirk Strider. You are seven years old. Your mother and father are dead, your sister might be as well, and you are so painfully alone.Your name is Dirk Strider. You are sixteen years old. Your katana drips fuschia blood as your guardian stares disbelievingly at the blade protruding from her chest.Your name is Dirk Strider. This is your story.





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A beginning and an ending.

The sky is streaked with blood when she takes you.

You’re seven years old and curled up in bed when your bedroom door is flung open. Your mother, Queen Rose Lalonde of Derse, hurries in. She’s dressed in a silken nightgown and slippers, her hair sticking up at odd angles. In her hands are a pair of knitting needles.

You open your mouth to ask her what’s going on, but she shushes you with a finger to her lips and urges you out from under the covers. She grabs your hand brusquely, and, before you can ask her what’s going on, why she’s here, what she wants from you, she’s dragging you to the open exit of your room. Together, you run through the halls, barefoot and in your pyjamas. Ornate wooden doors, oil paintings of long-deceased royals, decorative statues of great Dersite heroes—all fly by as you and your mother sprint further and further into the recesses of the palace. The night is silent and still. All you can hear are your footsteps and your breathing, loud, painful gasps painfully loud in the dead air. Your mother shoves a hand in front of your mouth, stifling your breaths but limiting your intake of oxygen. You run on, hand held tightly by your mother, confused and dizzy, your vision getting blurrier by the second. You blink away the traitorous tears that well up in your eyes. You’re not a baby, and you refuse to cry.

A scream pierces the previously peaceful atmosphere, followed by shouting. Disparate orders are barked in harsh voices both familiar and strange followed by the clash of metal on metal. You sob and your mother picks you up, dashing madly forwards. You cling on to her warm, solid presence, covering your eyes and wonder where your father and sister are.

There’s a door up ahead, opened just a crack, leading to the royal gardens, which are located at the very back of the palace. Your mother, at breakneck speed, is rushing towards it. You can already feel the cool night breeze, can detect the smell of soil and pollen and living things, that achingly organic perfume so different from the city smog most are accustomed to. You think, for a second, that you are safe, and you imagine the stars twinkling above you, mythical figures painted in the pinpricks of light smiling benevolently at your mother and you, guiding the pair of you far, far away from whatever danger you’re fleeing from.

The door slams shut.

Your mother bristles and sets you down, roughly shoving you behind her. You can make out a intimidating figure—wild hair forming a malevolent aura around a lithe body, a pair of wickedly sharp horns protruding above the flash of a gold circlet, a glittering trident held in one hand. The figure laughs sharply, her voice abrasive and cruel. “You were so close,” she says.

The knitting needles glint in your mother’s hands as she raises them menacingly. “I’d advise you to leave immediately should you wish to keep your eyesight,” she says, her voice low and venomous. She doesn’t sound like the woman who raised you, gentle and witty and calm, nor does she sound like the regal queen your kingdom has come to respect, confident and sharp and eloquent.

This prompts the figure to throw back her head and cackle. “Ain’t you somefin?” she says. 

“I do believe my threat was amply clear in announcing my intentions,” your mother says. “Get out of my way.”

“You’re cute, gill. Reminds me of a certain someone I ran into on my way here.” You can tell that she’s smiling even if you can’t see her. Your mother gasps sharply, and you peek out from behind her to see the figure is holding a broken pair of sunglasses. Familiar sunglasses. Dark liquid dribbles from the cracked lenses. You freeze, clutching your mother’s skirts. She too is silent, terribly silent, her hand covering her mouth, her shoulders trembling. You think for a second that the world has gone still, that time itself has stopped, capturing your mother and you in a tableau of shocked grief. Then, the figure spots you.

She lets out a shriek of delight, casually tossing the aviators away, then steps forwards. Your mother stiffens, and you recoil. “Don’t move,” your mother hisses.

“No need to be shy, guppy,” the figure says. “Come on trout. I won’t hurt you.”

“Don’t talk to him,” your mother snarls, positioning herself to block you from the figure’s view.

The figure ignores her. “There’s nofin to worry atrout. I just wanna sea you.” She takes a step forwards.

Your mother brandishes her knitting needles, her posture suddenly predatory. “I’m warning you now,” she says.

“I fink your lusus cod use some help,” the figure continues, advancing. “I fink you cod help her.”

“Don’t listen to her, Dirk.”

“She’s not a very good lusus, is she?” She’s still stepping forwards.

“Dirk, stay behind me.” 

The figure is coming closer.

“Mom,” you whisper.

The figure is coming closer.

“I’m right here, darling.”

The figure is coming closer.

“She’s coming closer.”

The figure is coming closer.

Your mother closes her eyes. You tug on her skirts, urge her to step back, but she stays there, facing the figure.

The figure is coming closer.

“Dirk.”

“Mom?”

The figure is close, so close.

“I love you.” Her words are so soft you almost miss them.

You pull on her insistently. “Mom, please.”

The figure is right in front of you.

She smiles.

Your mother screams, anger and fear and desperation exploding into one syllable.

“RUN!”

Then your mother is lunging towards the figure, her needles slashing and stabbing, her silken gown trailing after her like a malevolent spectre. For a second, you think you imagine her inexplicably rising, her arms spread out wide, as if embracing the air. Inky blackness spreads from her body, darker than the already lightless palace. In her hand, her needles crackle with violet lightning. She opens her eyes, and they are illuminated with a blank white glow, the only reprieve to the darkness around you, as monstrous as the monster they are facing down.

You blink, and suddenly she is still, stiff as a marble statue, the only imperfection in her pale stone form a single dark rose blooming from her stomach.

It’s at this moment that you learn that, in the dark, blood shines black.

You scream and the figure laughs and a trident flashes and the world is dark and light and you are running, running, your heart leaping out of your throat, your bare feet pushing you forwards, the door within your reach, your hand outstretched, reaching, reaching-

The door is open, and the sun is rising in a bloody and wailing sky, and you are free-

And then she grabs you from behind and drags you, kicking and screaming, back into the heart of the darkness, and you know for certain that you are not free, that you will never be free, that freedom is a concept that no longer exists for you. The sky wails for your loss, painting itself in the colours of your grief, fresh and bleeding and crimson red, so different from the ink that dribbled from your mother’s corpse, and you cry for her and for your father as the door slams shut.

Your father is dead. Your mother is dead.

The door slams shut, and you understand that you are dead as well.


	2. Homelost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dream, some exposition, the start of a few potential friendships, the slow but steady beat of passing time, and thoughts on home.

The Condesce keeps you alive. You don’t understand why and you’re too scared to ask. You suspect that whatever is preventing her from killing you the same way she killed your family may very well falter in strength depending on how annoying you might be. 

Upon killing your mother and grabbing you, the Condesce pinches your cheeks a couple of times before locking you in a guest room. You stay there for what feels like days but might be anything from a few hours to a few months. Food is delivered to you three times a day by a quiet Alternian servant girl. She’s curly-haired and brown-eyed, short, and maybe five years older than you. Neither of you attempt to converse, and you find yourself missing Roxy with all your heart. As much as she annoyed you at times, she was always your closest companion and co-conspirator.

At first, you’re numb. You curl up in bed, hiding behind your covers, emerging only to scarf down the food brought to you. Despite looking identical to the food you used to eat, it tastes like cardboard to you, flavourless and textureless, and you hardly chew before swallowing your meals.

You sleep through the majority of your time in the guest room. Sometimes, when you’re lucky, you dream of your family. In your favourite one, your mother reads you and Roxy a bedtime story. When Roxy inevitably falls asleep before you, your mother takes out the thick history book the two of you have been working through. You lean against her as she opens the tome, wrapping your arms around her waist.

“I’m sorry,” you tell her.

She frowns at you. “Sorry about what?”

“You died,” you mumble. “Dad died. Roxy died.”

Your mother shakes her head, then places a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Dirk, darling, no one died. We’re all here, aren’t we? I’m here. I wouldn’t be here if I were dead, would I?”

You say nothing, baffled. She’s right. She can’t be dead, can she? Not when she’s right in front of you, holding the book you’ve been reading for weeks now, her violet eyes bright as ever, her voice gentle and self-assured. “Are you sure?” you ask her, still uncertain. “Where’s Dad?”

“That is an excellent question,” your mother says. “In fact, it is a question that, in my humble opinion, ought to be answered at once. Shall we go on a quest, dear?” She offers you her hand, and you take it. It’s soft, and you notice that she’s had her nails done recently, glossy layers of black paint still perfectly unchipped.

“Wait,” you say, “can we take Roxy?”

“Certainly, love.” She lets go of your hand for a moment to hoist Roxy, still slumbering peacefully, onto her back. Together, you walk towards your father’s quarters. Your mother opens the door and you hold your breath, half-expecting something awful inside, only to see your father writing something in his journal. The moment he sees the three of you at the door, he snaps it shut, then leans back and grins coolly. 

“You’re lucky Karkles isn’t here,” he says, just like he always does whenever you barge into his room without knocking. You don’t really understand, but you think it’s meant to be funny.

Rose tsks at his comment. “Dirk wanted to see you.” Your father raises his eyebrows at you, the universally-recognized Strider sign for, Go ahead, dude. 

“Nightmare,” you explain simply. It’s not the whole truth—what’s bothering you is less a brief, frightening dream and more a whole set of memories buried in your head that don’t seem to make any sense right now—but you figure the truth is too complicated to explain. Your father nods knowingly.

“Don’t worry, lil’ man,” he tells you. “Dave effing Strider, coolest of cool dudes, raddest of rad men, here to keep you safer than a laptop in an unnecessary knitted cozy.”

Rose rolls her eyes subtly, and you laugh. Now that your initial panic has faded, you’re starting to feel embarrassed. You’re being silly, you know. You know that you’re too old to be scared of nightmares, that you shouldn’t be disturbing your parents at this time. They’re important people, and they’re so busy all the time. Still, for some reason, you feel that you need this reassurance.

You walk over to your father and sit next to him. Your mother does the same next to you after setting Roxy down. She’s still holding your hand. She strokes your hair, and you fall asleep with your head leaned against your father’s shoulder and your hand still clutching your mother’s.

It’s when you wake up from that particular dream that the numbness begins to recede, and you realize the full extent of what has happened. Reality comes rushing in. Your parents are dead, gone, never to be seen again. Your mother will never read another book with you. Your father will never joke around with you again. You remember your mother’s last few words to you, and sob into your pillow because you never got to tell her that you love her too.

That dream is your least favourite one as well.

*****

The sad thing is that, to some extent, you knew this was coming. Sure, no one ever really talked about the Alternian invasion of Derse—not around you or Roxy, at least—but you’ve always been aware that something was wrong. As the months passed, your father’s combat lessons became increasingly strenuous, him pushing you and Roxy to the brink of exhaustion. Your mother had scolded him thoroughly for it, and he eventually changed to teaching you how to run and hide. Karkat, your father’s advisor, had sat the two of you down one day and explained a troll’s weak spots, pointing to his head and his neck and then, seeming somewhat embarrassed, his crotch. “If a troll you don’t know grabs you,” he gravely informed the two of you, “kick them right between the legs. Then, run the fu- run the _heck_ away.”

“The girls too?” Roxy had asked.

“The girls too,” Karkat had confirmed.

The month before the attack was particularly tense. Your parents were constantly locked behind doors talking with stuffy-looking noblemen and noblewomen. Karkat mysteriously vanished into the void known as the counsellor’s meeting room. Kanaya, your mother’s handmaid and your and Roxy’s caretaker, accompanied you and Roxy constantly, her exhausted eyes trailing your every movement.

You heard the whispers in the halls. _The Alternians are coming,_ you heard them say. People cast suspicious glares at Karkat and Kanaya, eyeing their stony complexions and orange horns nervously. Your father made it a point to sling an arm around Karkat’s shoulder whenever the two were walking together, much to his companion’s annoyance. Your mother simply returned those who stared with an even, piercing gaze that sent onlookers shuffling away. Kanaya ignored all those who dared question her, walking forwards proudly, elegant as ever, her chin held high, holding your and Roxy’s hands.

_The Alternians are coming._ For some reason, that particular rumour never bothered you. It had seemed so distant. You were confident that your father and mother were more than well-equipped to protect you. You were sure that whoever the Alternians were, they were sure to lose the moment they made the mistake of challenging your parents. It had never occurred to you that either of them could die.

You miss that feeling of security. You miss the trust you felt in the adults who cared for you. You miss feeling invincible. 

In all your years of living, you have never felt so afraid.

*****

One day, out of the blue, the servant girl comes into your room to present you with an invitation to breakfast from Her Imperious Condescension. You take it from her and thank her despite not wanting to go. You want to hide away in this empty room forever, fading away into the shadows.

“I’m sorry,” the girl whispers to you as she leaves. It’s the first thing she’s said to you. Her voice is a little raspy, like all Alternians, but strangely soft and kind. You consider asking for her name, but by the time you make up your mind, she’s already gone.

*****

The servant girl comes back the next morning to dress you. She comes bearing a strange set of fuschia clothes oddly resembling extremely fancy pyjamas. You stare at them questioningly, and the girl sighs. She urges you forwards and patiently teaches you how to put them on. She then sits you down and combs your hair. You’re painfully reminded of Kanaya. She used to help prepare you and Roxy for formal appearances. You wonder if she’s alright. You don’t know if she’s still alive, just like you don’t know if your younger sister still lives.

When the servant girl has finished prettying you up, she leads you to the Condesce. She’s sitting in the dining hall, the one that your family used to use on informal occasions, the one you sat at every day to eat and talk and laugh. The room is exactly the same as before, and you bite your lip to avoid thinking of the painful memories that well up in your mind like tears in mournful eyes. 

You haven’t cried since the night after the dream. You don’t think you have any tears left.

“Whale, whale, whale,” says Her Imperious Condescension. Her hair is as wild as ever, exploding around her in intimidating waves. Around her arms and neck are numerous ostentatious gold bangles, all matching her flashy gold circlet. She’s wearing a tight suit the same colour as your clothes. You hate her for making you resemble her in the slightest. “I don’t fink I got a good look at you before. You’re even cuter than I thought, guppy.”

 _Don’t call me that,_ you want to say, but don’t, because you’re a coward. Instead, you stare into the plate of cured meats and fresh fruits being set in front of you by a servant.

“You’re shy, aren’t you?” the Condesce asks. When you don’t respond, she adds, “Either that or you’re just mentally retarded.”

If there’s anything you can’t stand, it’s an insult to your intelligence. “I’m not,” you mumble.

“What’s that, guppy?”

“I’m not retarded,” you tell her, “and I’m not shy.”

“Whale then,” the Condesce says, grinning slightly, “water you?”

 _I’m furious,_ you think, _I’m furious and grieving and sad, so very sad, and I hate you and want you to go away forever, but if you can’t do that, I want to go away myself._ You don’t say any of that. Instead, you say, “I’m tired.” It’s what Kanaya used to say whenever she was unhappy with either you or Roxy— _I am not upset, I am tired._

“A fishy statement, seain’ as you’ve got nofin to do but sleep.”

“I’m tired of sleeping,” you tell her.

“Ain’t that a paradox.”

You refrain from telling her that it’s more of an oxymoron. “I hate my room.”

“Do you?” You nod, and the Condesce nods back. “Whale, I don’t sea the harm in puttin’ you back in your old room.”

You’re not sure if that’s what you want either, but you decide to go along with it. You hesitantly pick at your food. It tastes a little less like cardboard and a little more like salt and sugar. You don’t know if that’s a good thing.

“Want anyfin else, guppy?” the Condesce asks you in a voice that could almost be misconstrued as considerate, and you stare at her for a moment before thinking, _Why the hell not?_ It’s not like you’ve got anything to lose.

“I want to leave my room,” you say. “I’m tired of being stuck there.”

“Where’d ya wanna go?”

You think for a moment before saying, “The library.”

The Condesce chuckles indulgently. “You’re a smart little minnow, ain’t ya? Fin, I’ll allow it. You’ll need a guard to accompany you, though. I ain’t too dumb to reelize that you’re probably planning your escape already. You’re a koi one, just like your lusus.”

“What’s a lusus?” you ask.

“A guardian,” she says, and you recognize that she’s referring to your mother. You ignore the flash of anger that sparks in your chest and focus on getting the right to use the library.

“Who’s my guard?” You hope it’s the servant girl.

The Condesce seems to read your mind. “Her? Of course not. Naw, you’ll be gettin’ someone more suitable for the task.” Having said that, she stands up, her jewelry flashing like a mini paparazzi, reflecting the light of the room. You can hardly connect this ridiculously-dressed, fish-pun-spouting woman to the shadowy figure who stole your mother’s life.

“Take him to his room,” the Condesce tells the servant girl. She’s still standing by the door, her face expressionless, her eyes firmly planted downwards. “His bedroom,” the Condesce clarifies, “not the one we’ve had him shut in. When you’re finished, lock him in and get Equius.”

The servant girl bows, and she ushers you away.

*****

“What’s your name?” you ask her when you get to your room. It’s cold and dusty. The servant girl is busying herself with opening the curtains to let in the weak autumn light. Through the window, you see specks of white drifting by. It’s snowing. Your birthday must be coming up soon. You and Roxy used to celebrate your birthdays together—you were just over a full year older than her, your birthdays being one day apart—until Roxy had decided that she wanted her very own party, thank you very much, and kicked you to the curb. You didn’t like attention the same way Roxy did, and ever since, your birthdays have been like fireworks—the mood whizzing upwards excitedly on yours before exploding in a climax of colour and noise the moment Roxy’s day arrives. You never really minded, though. Birthdays were never all that interesting to you anyway.

You always enjoyed Roxy’s birthdays more than your own. After all, a firework’s purpose is to dazzle in the sky, not to hurtle upwards infinitely. You don’t know what you’ll do without her.

“I’m Aradia,” the servant girl tells you, breaking you out of your reverie. “Aradia Megido.”

“I’m Dirk,” you tell her. “Dirk Strider.”

“I know,” she says.

“Thought it was best to be polite,” you explain.

“I suppose it is.”

“Who’s Equius?” you ask.

She wrinkles her nose. “Equius Zahhak is a high-ranking blue-blood apprenticed to the Condesce’s executioner, Horuss Zahhak.”

The fact that the Condesce is giving you her executioner’s apprentice as a guard is not lost on you. You decide to ignore that for now and focus on the part you don’t understand. “What’s a blue-blood?”

The question seems to confuse Aradia for a moment. “Hmm,” she says. “I suppose you never got to learn about the hemospectrum in Derse.”

“I’ve heard it mentioned,” you say. Karkat had ranted about it on multiple occasions, though you don’t think you had been supposed to hear. Karkat just had the sort of voice that could be heard, clear as day, for miles, echoing in distant ravines and assaulting your ears at the least opportune times.

“Essentially, there are eleven blood colours that a troll can have,” Aradia says, and you remember that “troll” is the Alternian term for “Alternian”. “They determine your status in society. I, as a rust-blood, am the lowest on the hemospectrum. Her Imperious Condescension, a fuschia-blood, is the highest.”

“Where’s Equius?”

“As a blue-blood, he’s closer to the high end of the spectrum.” Aradia opens her mouth to say more, then decides against it.

“You don’t seem to like him,” you note.

“He is what could be described as an acquired taste,” she explains. “He is obsessive and pretentious, which can cause his behaviour to come across as… odd.”

“Are you going to bring him over?”

“I’ve been ordered to,” says Aradia, seeming somewhat bitter. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a moment.” You nod, and she exits, the tell-tale click of the lock indicating that she has indeed followed through on her commands.

You survey your room. There are a few minor changes to it—the bed has been made and the closet flung open. You suspect that they must have searched your personal possessions, rifling through your dresser and your bookshelf for anything useful to the Condesce. With a quiet sigh, you walk to your bed and sit down, facing the window. Outside, snow drifts downwards peacefully, the sky a perfectly uniform grey. The usually dirty grey concrete of Derse is dusted with white, and the streets are, for once, silent and empty. You suppose people are less likely to want to exit their houses knowing that the enemy has overthrown their monarchs and taken over their kingdom. Still, the sight is strangely lovely. You wish Roxy was here to see this, although you suspect that she’d hate the quiet—Roxy loved the hustle and bustle of the city, loved the cars honking and the pedestrians stopping to greet their princess.

The door opens, and you hastily turn around, afraid to be caught unawares. Aradia enters your room, her soft padding footsteps drowned out by the ungodly stomping of the boy behind her. He’s around Aradia’s age, but he’s much taller than her, taller than even your father—he has to duck to enter the room. Sweat shines on his skin, dampening his shirt. One of his horns is broken, as are his glasses, as are his teeth. You’re immediately suspicious of him.

“Her Imperious Condescension has asked me to guard you,” the boy tells you. “I assure you, I am very- STRONG- and will do my job as befitting of a noble blue-blood of my- STRENGTH.” He actually pauses before shouting the words “strong” and “strength”, like a glitchy audio recording. You glance at Aradia, who stares firmly at the ground. You think you’re beginning to understand her previous description.

“Thanks,” you finally say. He nods, acknowledging your reluctant gratitude. “I want to go to the library,” you tell him, and he frowns.

“Has Her Imperious Condescension given you permission?” he asks. You nod, but he still looks doubtful. “You,” he says, directing his words at Aradia, “what did Her Imperious Condescension say?”

“She gave Prince Strider permission to visit the library,” Aradia says.

Despite not seeming completely convinced, Equius nods slowly. “If Her Imperious Condescension says so…” he starts.

*****

The library is exactly as you remembered it. Its heavy mahogany doors open to reveal shelf after shelf of books, sorted by genre. You approach the history section somewhat apprehensively, eyeing the beautiful spines lined up before you, some ancient and weathered, others stiff and new. Eyeing a familiar title, you pick it out and crack it open, breathing in the scent of old parchment. You skim through, flipping the pages hurriedly, until you arrive at a photo. It’s a relatively old one of your mother and father on their wedding day. They’re smiling at the camera, their expressions oddly uniform, postures stiff and straight. You remember showing it to your mother once, and she had grimaced slightly. “What’s wrong?” you’d asked her.

“Old memories,” she had explained, and you remember finding it strange that she had answered in so few words. She usually could turn a simple yes or no answer into paragraphs of unnecessarily complicated prose.

You skip another few pages and find a photo of your family. Your mother is sitting next to her very tired-looking handmaiden, her lips quirked up just the slightest. Roxy sits in her lap, her tiny face split into a massive grin. She can’t be more than three or four. Your father has been caught in the middle of one of his signature snort-laughs, while his advisor is red-faced and windmilling his arms around, clearly in mid-rant. You, in the meanwhile, are sitting on your father’s shoulders, arms crossed, face set in what you guess was meant to be a cool expression. It isn’t cool. In fact, its lack of coolness is so absolute that it embarasses you immensely. 

You remember this photo. A photographer had been sent to photograph the royal family. It was meant to be a quick affair—just half and hour or so, in and out. The preparation for the photo, however, had been arduous and painful. You’d been attacked with various brushes and powders, your hair trimmed and styled, your entirety washed and dressed in disturbingly lacy fabric. By the time the photographer had arrived, neither you nor Roxy had had any intention of cooperating, resulting in Kanaya being called in to soothe you. As formidable as Kanaya was, even she was incapable of quelling your and Roxy’s combined rage, and two full hours had passed before Karkat arrived to shout at everybody (but mostly your father). Finally, in a state of despair, Kanaya had dumped you with your father and Roxy with your mother, who had been sitting there for the duration of the disastrous photoshoot, smiling wryly. At that point, your mother had called everyone to order, after which the entire affair was done in mere minutes. 

You glance behind you and notice a remarkably sodden Equius talking to Aradia, whose face embodies the sentiment of discomfort. Seeing that they’re distracted, you quietly rip the photo out of the book and fold it up carefully before pocketing it. You’re usually not one for vandalising works of literature, but you feel an overwhelming need to keep the photo near you. You proceed to close the book and shove it back to its proper place on the shelf. Equius turns his head to look at you, perhaps tipped off by your movement, before returning to his one-sided conversation with Aradia.

You spend the rest of the morning and afternoon making your way through a thick tome on Alternian culture. It takes much longer than you’re used to now that your mother isn’t here to help you with the hard words, but you plow on stubbornly. By the time Equius insists that you leave, you’ve learned more about the hemospectrum and about the particularly violent lifestyle awarded to most Alter- trolls. They’re called trolls. You decide that you ought to remember that, mostly because you’re living among them. Calling them a name they don’t use seems odd and, quite frankly, probably somewhat inflammatory. The last thing you want to do is piss off one of the many doubtlessly predatory trolls in the palace.

You learn that trolls are not mammals, that they’re born as insect-like “grubs” and mature to look more humanoid. You learn that the Condesce is troll royalty, and not in the same way that you’re human royalty—she was literally born for the part. Everything from the blood in her veins to her lifespan and her abilities indicate that she is physically superior to all of trollkind. 

You go through a bit of history for old time’s sake. It goes a bit like this: roughly three hundred years ago, the trolls arrived on Earth on the island of Australia. Using their vastly superior weaponry, they took huge swathes of territory from humanity, killing thousands everywhere they went. They ruined forests and lakes and rich soil as they made their way through your planet, turning once-sustainable regions to barren wastelands unfit for anything resembling agriculture. At first, humans were scattered, speaking many different languages and unable to communicate with each other. As such, they were easily killed. 

As the Alternian threat grew larger and larger, the few remaining humans banded together, entire nations uniting, welding into large empire-like unions. Weapons and war technology were developed at breakneck speed by inventors from all over the globe, the Chinese and the Dutch and the Russians collaborating as one. The Alternians took more and more land from the humans, causing refugees to stream into Europe. Tensions spiked and, for years, the United Empires of Europe seemed on the verge of civil war. Then, as the Americas, then Africa, then Asia, were steadily taken, and as the flow of humans entering the Empires ballooned, humanity seemed to understand how grave its situation was. The Empires greeted those entering it with increasing demands for hard work and assimilation, orders that were reluctantly followed by the downtrodden refugees. With all the might of humanity concentrated in the United Empires, humanity declared war on the Alternians, fighting back brutally, killing thousands with chemical weapons and radioactive bombs. Eventually, an impasse was met, and both sides settled down on their territory, the trolls sticking to North America and the humans choosing to stay in the United Empires. Until the dawn of the twentieth century, humans and trolls ignored each other with an almost impressive kind of fortitude. The threat of the foreign people across the sea was never quite forgotten, but it was certainly disregarded long enough for a civil war to split apart the Empires, dividing it into Prospera, the Prosperous Empire, which developed where the Mediterranean was, and Derza, the Nation of Snow, whose immense territory cut through Northern France and the Ottoman Empire, covering large chunks of what had been Russia. The two kingdoms were mortal enemies, and for some time, they frequently engaged in wars, their respective territories shrinking and growing depending on their success.

Then, on New Year’s eve of 1896, the new Condesce became ruler of Alternia. For years afterwards, brutal, bloody, and ultimately unsuccessful rebellions wracked the nation. Hundreds of trolls fled to the two human kingdoms, facing hostilities and persecution wherever they went. It wasn’t until the late 1940s when, with the birth of the trolls rights movements, trolls became legal citizens of Prospit, then Derse. Prospit was still the friendlier nation, with warmer climates and warmer attitudes, and thus had a larger troll population. Derse, on the other hand, received relatively few refugees, and was perfectly content with that. It wasn’t until your father’s coronation in 1999 when trolls gained equal rights to humans in Derse. Your father opened up his council to trolls, and went so far as to take a troll as his personal advisor and top international relations strategist. Your mother took on a troll as her handmaid, placing her life in the hands of a woman of a different species. It payed off in the end, you think, although there still were some tensions.

You imagine those tensions cannot have improved now that the trolls have literally murdered the King and Queen of the nation.

When you return to your quarters, you rummage through your dresser before finding the book. It’s thick and leatherbound, just like you remembered it, and you open it up to the elegant lavender ribbon bookmarking the place you and your mother stopped at. You take out the photo hidden in your pocket and unfold it gently, smoothing out the creases. You place it between the pages of the book before closing it, pressing your family under musty parchment pages. 

“I’m sorry,” you tell them. No one responds.

*****

The days pass by. At first, they are sluggish, dragging on forever, and all you want to do is climb in bed and fall asleep. Occasionally, the Condesce insists on dining with you, and you are forced into frilly fuschia attire, then shoved to the table. While you initially dread the encounters, you eventually become increasingly ambivalent about the whole affair. Strangely enough, the Condesce is a pleasant enough companion. That is, if you overlook her enthusiastic takeover of your nation and murder of your parents and possibly your sister.

At first, you despise her for the disconnect in your head. You despise her for you inability to link together the woman who pats your head and tells you fish jokes with the monster blocking the garden door. Your hatred and fear of her boil over in a white, frothing rage before settling down. Slowly, you feel yourself growing indifferent to her polarized personas. The Condesce is your lunch mate. The Figure was the one who killed your parents. You find yourself inexplicably looking forwards to speaking with the Condesce, to outwitting her in your verbal duels, to listening to her outrageous stories of treasure-hunting in her youth. Still, you make sure to never insult her. You keep your mouth zipped shut on the important matters you care about. You never mention Aradia or Equius without the Condesce’s prompting, and even then, you are hesitant and reluctant. The last thing you want to do is get them in trouble. Even Equius, despite his somewhat creepy attitude towards Aradia and his painful lack of self-awareness, doesn’t deserve that particular fate.

Soon, your birthday arrives, and you spend the day clutching your book to your chest, forcing yourself not to look at the hidden photo of your family. It’s not as hard as you thought it would be. Aradia brings you a small cake, and you eat it together despite Equius’s blatant disapproval.

Roxy’s birthday is harder, but you manage. That day, nobody disturbs you, and you spend your time with your face pressed up against the frosted glass of the window, selfishly wishing to catch sight of her bright blond bob, even if it means that she’ll be locked up with you if the guards spot her. You notice the next day that Equius is acting even sleazier around Aradia, and realize that she must have deliberately distracted him to keep him away from you—with what, you shudder to imagine. You express your gratitude by stealing a loaf of fresh bread from the kitchen and gifting it to her. She smiles at you. “I’m sure that your sister must be fine,” she says as the two of you sit on your bed, gazing out the window. “If she were dead, the Condesce would be boasting about it the same way she boasts about the deaths of your parents. Roxy is far away. Too far for even Her Imperious Condescension to reach.”

You are both disappointed and relieved. You are unsure of how to feel about the Condesce’s supposed boasting, and you attribute her unsavoury actions to the influence of the Figure.

*****

Paradoxically, as the winter wanes and the sun lights the sky for longer and longer stretches of time, the days seem to snap back into place like an elastic resuming its natural position after having been pulled to its extremes. You get up and head to the library, spending hours perusing books. You begin to converse more with Aradia, who, despite her quiet demeanor and monotonous voice, seems more than willing to chat. You even speak with Equius at times, and end up learning many surprisingly interesting details about robotics. In a rare moment of kindness, Equius even brings you to his workroom to demonstrate the basics of building a machine. You’re so eager to know more that you ask him for regular lessons, and he hems and haws for a while before giving in. After all, if there’s one thing that Equius enjoys doing, it’s preaching about whilst demonstrating his high-blooded superiority, and his expertise in robotics allows him to do just that. You don’t mind too much, though. You are enthralled by the way someone can gather scraps of metal and fashion them into an almost life-like creation. You think, in a way, you are like a robot—you were in pieces when your life was snatched away from you, you were broken and useless and dead. Then, through a strange mixture of the passing of time and the help of strangers, you are almost back, almost alive, almost you, but not quite. Something’s missing. You’ve lost something, and you don’t think you’ll ever be able to find it back. You’re not too bothered anymore. You think you might have gotten used to it.

During a lesson on welding, you notice a sword tucked away in a box of spare parts. It’s dull and unassuming—a training sword, probably. A sudden thought dashes into your brain, and you casually ask Equius if you can take a box. “I want to work on my own projects,” you tell him, “and I want to work in my room.” Despite seeming initially confused by your sudden desire to possess scraps of junk metal, Equius gives you the go ahead. You shove the sword deeper into the box and hunch over it so that you can block any passers-by from seeing the weapon. The box is heavier than you initially thought, and you stumble slightly as you head out the door. Equius notices your strain and offers to carry it for you, all the while spitting out three “STRONG”s in one sentence. You tell him you’re training to be strong as well and that you think your muscles could use the exercise. 

The moment you get back, you shove the sword deep into your dresser, covering it with dress socks. You then squeeze the box of parts into your closet. Having accomplished your task, you sit down on your bed, opening and closing your hands, imagining the smooth texture of a leather pommel between your fingers. When Aradia comes to bring you your dinner, you are reminiscing about the fencing lessons your father gave you. She asks you about what you’re thinking of, prompting you to shrug and mumble something mundane. She nods in comprehension. Neither you nor Aradia have spoken much about your personal lives, and you suspect that both of you have come to some sort of mutual understanding. You know that there is something in her past that bothers her, something that ended up making her the servant girl of an ex-prince under the command of a flashy fuschia tyrant. You’re just glad she’s here. You think she feels the same.

*****

One early spring morning, as you eat breakfast with the Condesce, she asks you if you miss walking around the palace. You shrug. “If you want to,” the Condesce tells you, “you cod go anywhere in here. I ain’t stoppin’ you. Just bring Equius along and you’ll be fin.” You don’t take her up on her offer until summer starts.

As the world outside your bedroom window catches fire in blazing sunlight, you and Equius walk to your father’s chambers. They’re not your father’s anymore. The beautifully carved wooden doors have been caked in gold and are being guarded by two surly bluebloods. You wonder where your father’s journal is. You wonder what he wrote in there. 

You’re really sick of wondering, but you can’t stop doing it.

*****

It was Kanaya who once told you that a house is not a home. You had been confused then, when she’d said it, and had told her very bluntly that the house you live in is called a home. Your home is your house and vice versa. She’d just smiled sadly and gazed out the window at the bustling city. “I hope that you’ll think that forever,” she had said, and once you told her you didn’t understand, she told you that it didn’t matter, that she was being a silly grown up. You’d gotten mad at her. You’ve always hated it when people brush you off, when people expect you to not understand because you’re young.

You understand Kanaya now. Your house, once your home, is no longer that. Your room no longer comforts you, but instead brings up panicked memories of the door bursting open. The statues you and Roxy used to sneakily deface remind you of frantic footsteps and stifled sobs. The royal gardens, arguably the most beautiful part of the palace, mock you with their carefully arranged splendor. You’ve been there exactly once since the deaths of your parents, and you had looked up at the cloudless blue sky and looked down at the carefully trimmed hedges. If you lay down and closed your eyes (and ignored the Alternian guards circling the perimeter, the carefully sculpted gold Condesce on display at the center, Equius’s occasional coughs, the conspicuous lack of roses), you could almost convince yourself that you’re back home. You don’t want that, though. Not an illusion, that is. As much as your heart aches for home, the pain feels better than the hollowness that occurs in your sugar-spun fantasies. At least you’re feeling something again.

Home. Jegus, you wish you were home.

After too much time wishing and wondering, you realize that home is no longer a place for you. Home is a time. The sad thing about that is that while you can return to a place, you can never return to a time. All you can do is watch as it inevitably grows further and further away, fading from sight in the mist of memories long forgotten.

You wonder sometimes what had caused Kanaya to understand. She’s a troll, you know, but you’ve never heard her mention anything about her kingdom of origin. You hope she’s alright now. You don’t know if she’s still alive, just like you’re uncertain if your younger sister still lives.

You hope that, wherever they are, they’re home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading the first official chapter of "Of Sound and Fury"! This is my first fanfic, and I'm eager to improve as both a writer and a storyteller, so any and all comments (especially critical ones!) are encouraged and appreciated.
> 
> The next chapter should be up in a few days. Until then, I hope you guys found this chapter to your liking.


	3. The Guppy and the Anglerfish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The advent of Trollian, a revelation, new friends, and a hint of treason.

It’s been over a year since your life was upended, and the Condesce seems to be securing her stranglehold on your kingdom. She begins to work more and more, arranging meetings with mean-looking high-blooded trolls who sneer at you in the corridors and attending event after event as the now-official queen of Derse. As such, her noons and evenings are never free, and you begin to see her less and less. To compensate, she decides to make your breakfasts together mandatory, telling you that she’d hate to lose your company. You suspect that she instead has the more nefarious desire to monitor your development to ensure that you’re being as obedient as possible. Why she bothers doing that instead of being efficient and offing you is still a mystery. You hesitantly think that perhaps there is more to the Condesce than the villain she presents herself as. There must be a side to her that must be capable of some kind of kindness, a side that invites you for breakfast and ruffles your hair fondly and keeps you, if not happy, then healthy and alive.

“Tell me, guppy,” she says one morning, stirring copious amounts of honey into her porridge, “water you even doin’ nowadays? As much as you might joke around with me, ya never reely mention what you’re spending your time doin’.” This throws you for a bit of a loop, seeing as you’re not entirely sure your daily activities are Condesce-approved. You think guiltily of the sword buried in your dresser. Ever since secretly taking it from Equius, you’ve been keeping it there, checking on it every-so-often to make sure that it’s still there. You have no idea why you took it, and you are similarly confused about your desire to hold on to it. It’s just a really crappy training sword. Still, it feels right, somehow. You feel safer knowing that you have something with which you can defend yourself.

“You’re the same,” you tell the Condesce, deflecting her question. “I noticed the highbloods you’ve been meeting with. Have you chosen your counsellors yet? I doubt you’d let anyone from the old counsel stay.” Actually, you’re not even sure if the Condesce will be creating a new counsel. She doesn’t seem like the type to listen to others’ advice.

“You’re fuckin' right about that,” the Condesce says, grinning toothily, and for a second, you think she has read your mind, before realizing she’s responding to your spoken statement. “Hell’s gonna be flooded over before I take in one of those old lampreys. Nah, the process takes some time, guppy. Lots of fish in the sea. Can’t choose the shiniest lot without seain’ all the dull ones. Now, let’s not redirect. When I ask you a question, I expect you to answer directly. So, guppy—whatcha been doin’?”

You keep your face firmly neutral as you respond. “Nothing much. I have robotics lessons with Equius twice a week and I’m in the library every day.”

The Condesce hmphs. “You shore you ain’t bored like that?”

“I’m not bored,” you tell her, and are almost surprised when you realize that that isn’t a lie. You really aren’t bored. Your days aren’t exactly interesting, and sometimes your repetitive schedule does get monotonous, but you enjoy it for the most part and are eager to keep learning new things. The ache that your parents’ and Roxy’s absence left in your heart hasn’t disappeared, but you find that it’s faded dramatically. The photo you’ve hidden in your history book no longer forces tears to well up in your eyes. The lack of social interaction doesn’t bother you either—you always complained about Roxy being too enthusiastic and noisy anyway, and while you’d kill to have her here again, the peace and quiet you encounter here is nice in its own way. There are no shocks in your days, and you stroll through your waking hours with a precise plan, be it to research Alternian philosophers (of which there are unsurprisingly very few) or to work on building a robot to rap with.

Despite not seeming completely satisfied with your response, the Condesce nods and spoons the last bit of porridge into her mouth. Setting down her silverware (all of which is less silver and more bright blinding gold), she calls for a servant before leaning towards you and giving your head a pat. “I guess I have the misfortune of havin’ to accommodate some sorta fuckin’ genius,” she says, and, against all logical reasoning, you can’t help but feel flattered. Genius. She called you a genius. Not that it should matter, coming from the woman who murdered your parents. It’s just that sometimes, you almost forget that. After all, she seems so frivolous, so charmingly pretentious, spending her executive power on painting the palace gold and wearing terribly-styled skin-tight suits with as many obnoxiously loud bangles as possible.

The Condesce leaves, chuckling slightly, her laugh as awfully high-pitched as ever, and you shake your head slightly in an attempt to rid yourself of your traitorous thoughts. Aradia approaches you, her soft padding footsteps barely registering in your ear. Equius is away today, visiting someone he described as his “moirail”. 

“Prince Strider,” Aradia says, and you wonder why she still calls you that. You’re not a prince anymore, are you? You’re like anyone else, a commoner, a native Dersite to be crushed under Alternia’s gold-coated iron fist.

“Why do you still call me that?” you ask, interrupting whatever she was about to say. Oh well. You’ll apologize later.

“Call you what, your majesty?” Aradia asks.

“That,” you say. “Your majesty, Prince, sir, all that.”

“It’s your title.”

“It was.”

“It still is.”

That makes you pause for a moment. “What do you mean, ‘It still is’? Am I… Am I somehow still a prince?”

“You are the prince of Derse, sir,” says Aradia, face as blank as ever.

“That not how it works,” you point out. “I used to be the prince because I was the son of the king and queen. Now, the Co- Her Imperious Condescension, I mean, is the queen of Derse. I’m not her son.”

“You aren’t her son,” Aradia confirms.

“Then I’m not the prince.”

“You are the prince.”

You grit your teeth. As much as you like Aradia, her occasional but purposeful vagueness always sets you on edge. “Please, Aradia,” you say, violating your rules on how to behave in public (no one in the palace knows about your almost-friendship with your servant). “I don’t understand.”

Aradia looks at you with something that could be described as pity. You bristle slightly. You’ve always hated pity. “You may not be Her Imperious Condescension’s offspring, but you are her heir. You are next in line for Derse. You are the Crown Prince of Derse.”

You open your mouth to speak, but no words come out. Crown Prince. You, as the son of the two previous royals murdered by the Condesce, are the Crown Prince of Derse. You are heir to the Condesce’s throne. You are _the Condesce’s_ heir.

What. The. Fuck.

“Why?” you ask, equal parts baffled and horrified. You can’t possibly be the Condesce’s heir. You have nothing to do with the Condesce. She _killed_ your parents, God dammit! There’s no possible way…

Aradia looks down at you with pity. She gestures at you to follow her, and the two of you silently make your way to your room. Aradia locks the door after you enter. “I won’t pretend I understand Her Imperious Condescension’s decisions,” whispers Aradia. It’s the first time you’ve heard Aradia second-guessing the Condesce. She’s always seemed relatively obedient. Sympathetic to your situation, of course, but obedient nonetheless. You’ve always speculated if it was a ruse, if Aradia truly believed the things she was ordered to say and do or if she reviled every second of her servitude. “Regardless, as odd as her commands may be, there is always a purpose behind them.” She says that as if it’s a piece of hard-won wisdom. “It’s true that the purpose may be something as inane as entertaining herself—and, believe me, she has done much in the name of entertaining herself—but there is always an underlying reason.”

“Do you think she’s doing this to entertain herself?” you ask. “Is it to mock me? To give me the title I used to have without having a chance to live up to it?”

“That could be it,” Aradia admits. “Still, I believe that to be unlikely. Her Imperial Condescension has not made your survival public news.” That surprises you. You had always just assumed that people knew that you were still around. After all, how in the world does the Condesce plan on keeping your being alive a secret when you’re constantly wandering around the palace? The majority of the castle staff know that the Condesce’s new royal counsel at least have a sneaking suspicion about the human boy slinking through the newly-painted golden hallways of the Dersite palace. You ask Aradia about this, and she smiles in a way you suspect is tinged with bitterness.

“Her Imperious Condescension’s word is law,” she explains. “No sane troll would dare disobey her orders. She wants your existence to be kept secret; therefore, your existence is kept secret.”

You realize that that means that Roxy, wherever she may be, must be unaware of your survival. You think of her staring out a window at the blank winter sky and empty city streets on your birthdays, mirroring your position, wishing to see a glimpse of your blonde hair or a flash of your triangular shades. It makes your stomach feel empty, which is strange, since you just had breakfast.

“Do I,” you start, then hesitate. “If Her Imperious Condescension dies, do I…?”

“You get the throne,” answers Aradia.

“I’m a kid.”

“Her Imperious Condescension does not mind your youth.”

You’re eight years old. You turn nine approximately in a month. For some reason, you are second-in-line for the Dersite crown.

You’ve always wanted to be taken seriously despite your age, but you’re starting to think that maybe this isn’t what you had in mind.

*****

When Equius returns from his break, he is accompanied by a short, olive-blooded troll. She’s bright-eyed and cheerful. A blue cat-shaped hat covering the top of her head. Equius introduces her as Nepeta. Nepeta introduces herself as “Equius’s meowrail!”

“What’s a meowrail?” you ask Aradia later on.

“Nepeta means to say ‘moirail’.”

“What’s a moirail?”

Aradia furrows her brows slightly before telling you that you ought to do more research on troll culture. A quick trip to the library later and you are a veritable expert on troll romance, able to painstakingly explain each of their four quadrants and list real-life and fictional examples of relationships that fit in each square. You ask Aradia if she has a moirail, and she smiles slightly. “I may,” she says, but doesn’t bother to expand.

With Nepeta around, Equius suddenly becomes much more bearable, spending hours talking with her instead of bothering you or Aradia. You’re not sure if you like his snobbish attitude towards his enthusiastic moirail, but you’re nonetheless grateful for the reprieve from his lectures on highbloods. Nepeta herself is fun to be around, and while you don’t fully understand her frequent usage of cat puns in the same way you don’t understand the Condesce’s obsession with aquatic-themed wordplay, you indulge her, occasionally slipping a couple “purrfect”s or “meowvelous”s into your own speech patterns just to make her happy. You and Nepeta develop a quick friendship. It’s the first unequivocally positive relationship you’ve developed with someone other than Aradia in a year, and, while you usually don’t mind not having people to talk to (your internal monologue is more than enough to keep yourself occupied), you are undeniably excited to make her acquaintance. Aradia is nice and all, and you are endlessly grateful for her help, but she admittedly isn’t the most interesting person to converse with. Her careful wording and flat voice make everything she says saturated with bleak resignation.

“You should RP with me on Trollian,” Nepeta says to you one day. You’ve just finished another robotics lesson with Equius, where you were adding finishing touches to Squarewave, your rapbot. Equius is still fiddling with some sort of program in his workroom. Despite his prowess in robotics, Equius is notably awful at the delicate art of programming. You and Nepeta are waiting for him to finish up.

You don’t know what RPing or Trollian are, so you ask Nepeta for clarification.

“RPing means roleplaying,” she says. “It’s, hmm, it’s like I say, ‘The mighty huntress Nepeta pounces towards her unsuspecting prey!’, and then you say, ‘The sneaky threshcutioner Dirk suddenly steps in and steals the prey from Nepeta’s outstretched claws!’. I usually do my RPing on Trollian, which is this online chatting platform. I can help you create an account and we can RP online whenever and wherever we want! Well, whenever and wherever Equius says I can, I mean.”

“I don’t have access to a device,” you say.

Nepeta doesn’t seem deterred. “That’s fine! I’ll ask my meowrail about it. He can build you one.”

“I thought Equius only built robots.”

“He can build pawsitively anything! Believe me, he’s super talented.”

As if on cue, Equius walks over to the pair of you. He’s fuming at someone on the phone, fingers rapidly typing some sort of angry statement.

“Equius,” Nepeta says, “can you purrhaps build a husktop for Dirk?”

This is met with a frown. “A husktop? For Prince Strider?” Nepeta nods enthusiastically. “Have you asked Her Imperious Condescension?” Seeing Nepeta’s face fall, Equius tsks. “Nepeta,” he says in his familiar I-am-about-to-lecture-you voice, “it is of the utmost importance that you always ask the permission of a highblood before executing an action that will impact them or their possessions. This is especially important for a midblood like you. You must not overstep your boundaries.”

“I’m sorry,” Nepeta says sorrowfully, and you feel like thumping Equius on the head. “I just wanted Dirk to have a chance to have fun. I didn’t know you needed purrmission for that.”

“Well,” says Equius, “I didn’t say he can’t have a husktop. As long as Her Imperious Condescension agrees…”

The next morning, while at breakfast with the Condesce, you ask her about potentially obtaining a husktop. She grins. “I thought you’d never ask” is the amused reply.

*****

arsenicCatnip [AC] began trolling theseusGrieving [TG]  
AC: :33 < *ac saunters out of her cave to present her most recent kill to tg as a welcome gift!*  
TG: Hello to you too, I guess.  
AC: :33 < *ac says hi as well*  
AC: :33 < hi dirk!  
AC: :33 < *ac holds out the gift to tg*  
TG: Um.  
TG: *TG graciously accepts the gift and invites AC into his humble abode.*  
AC: :33 < yes!  
AC: :33 < *ac gladly enters tg’s hive and tells him that it is a very beautiful place*  
TG: *TG thanks AC for her kind words and leads her to the living room.*  
TG: *TG brews a pot of black tea and offers some to AC.*  
AC: :33 < *ac is happy to take the tea and asks for some sugar*  
AC: :33 < *the kind shaped like little cubes if pawsible*  
TG: This feels kind of stupid.  
AC: :33 < it isn’t!  
AC: :33 < this is just some good old-fashioned roleplaying  
AC: :33 < its fun, isnt it?  
TG: I suppose it is.  
AC: :33 < then whats the harm in enjoying yourself for a bit?  
AC: :33 < dirk?  
TG: Can I poison your tea?  
AC: :33 < what?  
AC: :33 < why?  
AC: :33 < thats so mean  
TG: If we’re just having fun, we might as well make this a little more interesting.  
TG: I’ll be the villain.  
TG: I’m TG, a bitter hunter jealous of the mighty huntress AC’s wicked skills. I concoct a brilliant evil plan to assassinate AC so that I can steal her place. I move into AC’s neighborhood and, knowing that AC is kind and enjoys greeting newcomers, decide to poison her when she arrives to my house.  
AC: :33 < oh no!  
AC: :33 < that is a very clever evil plan, though :33  
TG: Thanks.  
AC: :33 < ok, i like your idea  
TG: Game on, then. May the best win.

*****

“Aradia, what’s your troll tag?”

It’s been almost two weeks since your introduction to Trollian, and you are now chumps with both Nepeta, Equius (reluctantly), and Her Imperious Condescension herself, who asked for your troll tag shortly after you began regularly RPing. Trollian has proven to be an immense relief for you. There’s a sense of normalcy you feel whenever you text Nepeta on your new Condesce-provided phone or husktop, one that reminds you of your father snorting after checking a notification on his phone or your mother smirking at her screen as she types line after line of lilac. It makes you wonder whether this is something you would be doing had your parents still been alive. You discard the thought quickly. You’ve learned that pursuing impossible scenarios like this one leads only to more moping in your room. However, you do allow yourself to briefly entertain the thought of chatting with Roxy. It’s unlikely to ever happen, but it’s still possible, and that in and of itself sparks hope in your heart.

“I don’t have a Trollian account,” says Aradia. She’s sitting next to you on your bed. Equius is off doing something with Horuss Zahhak, something most likely involving people’s heads being lopped off.

You’re slightly surprised by Aradia’s answer. Nepeta had given you the impression that the majority of trolls use Trollian. Then again, Aradia is a servant. You’re not sure if she has permission to use such things, and even if she does, you’re not sure if she has the time.

“It’s not that,” Aradia says, seeming to sense your thought process. “I’ve been informed that Trollian is not the most secure of platforms.”

“What do you mean?”

“Her Imperious Condescension carefully monitors Trollian for any and all signs of dissent. She’ll be especially careful with palace staff and others close to her.” She pauses for a moment, and you stay silent as the truth sinks in.

“She’s been monitoring me, hasn’t she?” you ask. Aradia nods. You scowl for a second before quickly wiping the expression from your face. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised about that.”

“You are, though,” Aradia notes, and you don’t bother denying her.

You feel stupid. So embarrassingly stupid. Of course the Condesce was monitoring you online! She was the one who provided the husktop for you, after all. If she wasn’t willing to let you wander around the palace unsupervised, why would she let you do the same over an electronic medium? Logically, you know that you’re technically the Condesce’s prisoner. She was the one who murdered your parents, who brutally took over your kingdom, who currently surrounds you with surly foreign guards. It’s just, well, sometimes, when the Condesce is being particularly ridiculous or charming, when she looks at you fondly and calls you by your pet name, when she flashes her trademark grin at you and asks you how you’ve been, you almost feel like she cares. You think back on your previous conviction that there must be something more to the Condesce, and feel your face heat up. Oh God. Jegus Christ. You’re an absolute idiot.

All you’ve done over Trollian so far has been innocuous. You’ve RPed with Nepeta, asked a couple of technology-related questions to Equius as well as a couple of hesitant questions on programming, which Equius responded with paragraphs of highly defensive text basically communicating that he had no understanding of programming whatsoever. You quickly think back on your searches. You don’t think you’ve searched up anything particularly incriminating—just random philosophy trivia, stuff on basic programming, more on Alternia and its culture. You also did a brief search for your own name, then Roxy’s. You had found virtually nothing of substance—just a couple of conspiracy theories ranging from impressively plausible to hilariously dumb. The Condesce must have seen your pathetic attempts to find your sister. The thought makes your face burn.

You try your best to keep your face stoic. The last thing you need is for Aradia to pity you even more than she already does. “It’s easy to forget who she is at times,” you say.

Aradia nods in what you think is an understanding manner. “I suppose it is.”

“I- Well.” You bite your lip. “I suppose I really do have nowhere to go. Away from her, I mean.”

Your statement makes Aradia hesitate for a second before sighing softly. “There is an alternative,” she says very softly. Her eyes are very slightly narrowed. You get the sense that she is being very serious all of a sudden.

“Is there?” you say carefully.

“It would require a device not tampered with by Her Imperious Condescension,” says Aradia.

“Is there a way to get that?” you ask.

Aradia’s silent for a moment. “There is,” she finally says, “but I won’t help you with that.” She purses her lips. “You’ll have to talk with the palace’s software engineer.”

“Software engineer?” You’re puzzled. “I haven’t heard of anyone like that around here. I thought Equius was the closest one to that description.”

“Equius would better fulfill the role of a mechanical engineer, seeing as his coding is not necessarily always the finest. However, Equius is aware of the existence of the software engineer. You can ask him for more information.”

You’re well aware that what Aradia is doing right now is technically treason. “Thank you,” you tell her.

“Don’t mention I said anything,” she says, and you wonder, as you have many times before, just what happened that made her fear the Condesce so much.

*****

After your conversation with Aradia, you make sure to restrain yourself on your devices. You keep on using Trollian to RP with Nepeta. You still search things up on the Internet at a frequent enough pace to avoid garnering suspicion. You don’t want it to seem like you’ve suddenly changed your behaviour, mostly because you don’t want to incriminate Aradia. Of course, you stop researching on Roxy’s location. It’s better if the Condesce doesn’t know about your desire to see her again. Besides, even if it’s unlikely you’ll find anything meaningful, it’s possible you’ll discover something the Condesce doesn’t know. The last thing you want to do is aid the Condesce on her quest to smite your family.

There’s another change you don’t tell anyone about, not even Aradia. It occurs the night after learning of the Condesce’s stranglehold of your life. Creeping across your room, placing your feet forwards step by tentative step, you approach your dresser and open it. It creaks, the noise startlingly loud in the silent night, and you freeze. Your heart is painfully loud in your chest. You can feel it thumping desperately, can feel your breaths coming up faster and faster, can feel your throat close up.

You sit down and close your eyes. You know you could just crawl back in bed. You could abscond and no one would be any wiser. The thought pisses you off. The Condesce isn’t here right now. You’re the only one in your room.

_In_ your room. Oh God, is there anyone outside your room? The Condesce never said anything about guarding you at night, and you’ve always followed her rules—staying in your room from the moment Equius guides you back after a day in the library, leaving only when Aradia comes in with a freshly ironed set of clothing in the morning.

You carefully make your way across the room before opening your door by just a crack. You peek out. The hall is empty.

No guards, then. There are probably other forms of surveillance the Condesce uses—video cameras, motion detectors, robot warriors—but you are nonetheless relieved to know that there’s no one directly outside your door. You close your door, then tiptoe back to your dresser and pull out your sword. It’s just as you left it—edges dulled and slightly rusted, pommel plain and ugly, leather grip well-worn by use, blade hefty and unbalanced. The weapon is much too large for you. You pick it up and almost tip over from the additional weight. Struggling a bit, you squat into a defensive stance, sword raised and ready. You think back on the times your father has attempted to teach you how to swordfight. Shifting your position, you make sure your weight is evenly distributed to your feet, then take a hesitant step forwards. You shuffle back and forth for a bit, feeling exceedingly stupid. Wow. You’re basically just doing a really weird and not at all aesthetically-pleasing dance routine. Your father would lose his mind laughing if he saw you.

A floorboard creaks underneath you, and you freeze, your hand tightly clenched around your weapon. _Stupid stupid stupid._ In the midst of your self-conscious practicing, you’ve forgotten to stay silent. You make up for that by being as quiet as possible. You even hold your breath, listening attentively for signs of life outside your door. You don’t hear anything. 

A few shuffle-steps later, you recall your father teaching you a similar exercise. “Flashstepping,” he called it. Moving so fast that it seems as if you’ve actually managed to stop time. Keeping your breathing steady, you eye a corner of your room and try to flit over like some kind of ninja-ballerina mashup. You fail miserably. Disregarding your embarrassing defeat, you try again. And again. And again.

Keeping your subsequent inhalations and exhalations hushed, you let the hours trickle by like sand through your outstretched fingers, your hackles up, eyes and ears peeled for any hint that the secrecy of your activity has been compromised.

By the time Aradia comes in with a freshly ironed bundle of fabulous fuschia fabric, you’ve gotten approximately three hours of sleep. She shoots you a sympathetic look before insisting on helping you into your garments. She hasn’t had to do that in months. You must really be tired.

The Condesce’s typical smirk quickly morphs into a frown when she sees you, and, for a second, you’re convinced that she must know. However, much to your relief, the Condesce merely gestures at your fancy shirt and pants and says, “Those clothes are short on ya. Ya shore are growin’, guppy. We gotta get a new set made.”

“May I choose my own?” you ask her, because you still despise the Condesce’s fashion choices even if you’re not as clear about where you stand with the troll herself. She thinks for a bit before shrugging.

“Why the shell not?”

*****

The next time you have robotics lessons with Equius, you ask him about programming. He spouts random sentences uselessly for about a minute before you cut him off by asking, “Does someone help you with your coding?”

That shuts him up. “No,” he says, voice cold and eyes even more so. “Why would you insinuate such a thing?”

“Some of the programming in your robots is incredibly complex,” you tell him, even though none of it is. “You don’t seem to intimately know everything about it, so I thought maybe there was another individual who designed some of it.” There. Keep it quick and blunt while skirting any overly insulting material. No need to point out that Equius is kind of a blithering idiot about code.

Equius scowls. “There may be someone who I occasionally take advice from,” he finally admits. “He’s a computer coder, so, despite not having my talent, he has more experience.”

_Aha,_ you think. _Gotcha._

“Could I maybe ask him some questions?” you ask. “I’m having troubles with Squarewave’s interactiveness. I was hoping to get some help from someone who focused mostly on software. He would probably have a different perspective on how to solve my issues.” This is all more or less true. Squarewave is a bitch to program, and getting advice from someone with more knowledge would be immensely helpful to you. Equius wrinkles his nose at your lewd language, and you tack on a quick apology. 

“I could help you,” offers Equius generously. You’re not sure how to respond to that without aggravating him, so you spend the next few hours listening to Equius muttering censored curses while unintentionally destroying the delicate wiring of your robot. By the time he finally gives up, you’re wringing your hands in distress. You’re going to need to spend days fixing all of this.

“I can take you to meet him,” Equius eventually says, and you quickly snatch back your precious project, unconsciously stroking the dented metal as comfortingly as possible, as if soothing a wounded beast. You take Squarewave to your room and stash him in your closet. You give your dresser a guilty glance as you’re leaving. You’ve been practicing flashstepping with your crappy training sword for three nights in a row, now. You have no idea what you’re doing, but it makes you feel better somehow, enough so to warrant disobeying the Condesce and potentially pissing her off. Not that you’re directly going against her demands, you abruptly realize. The Condesce has never said anything against sneakily doing the fencing exercises your dead father once gave you. Technically, you’re doing nothing wrong. You memorize all of that in case you’ll need to justify your actions at some point in the future.

Equius leads you deep into the palace, turning along twisting corridors and down unlit stairwells. You’re starting to get a bit nervous—you don’t think you’ve ever wandered so far into the palace, hell, you didn’t even know the palace was this big to begin with—when your guard finally stops in front of a heavy metal door. It’s well-polished and clear instead of tarnished with the ages, so you suspect it must be a new installation. Equius clears his throat slightly before rapping out a complex code with his knuckles. You wait, drumming your fingers against your thigh. After a moment of no response, Equius raps the code out again. He’s a little too forceful this time, and the door dents in with a particularly nasty crunching sound after the fourth knock before being forcefully flung open.

“What the acthual fuck, Equiuth?” snaps the goldblood standing at the doorway. He’s got four horns instead of the usual two, and he’s wearing a pair of odd glasses, the right lense blue and the left red. Despite his terrible posture and his somewhat pungent baggy clothes, he manages to be intimidating enough for you to take a careful step back. Unfortunately, that only attracts his attention, and he inhales sharply the moment he sees you. “Equiuth, you abtholute bulgefucker.”

“I can explain,” Equius hastily says. “This is-”

“Dirk fucking Thtrider, heir to the fucking _Condethe_ , yeah,” the troll says. “AA’th thlavemathter.”

Equius opens his mouth as if to correct the goldblood's obvious insubordination, then stops. “Yes,” he admits. "But I would- STRONGLY- advise that you avoid such lewd language-"

“I’m not interethted in indulging you with whatever perverthe pleasure you feel whenever you thee me thuffer,” the troll spits, then moves to slam the door close. Oh, hell no. You flashstep into the room before he can finish his motion, and he turns around, looking deeply pissed off, before spotting you and jumping a good foot into the air.

“What the bulgethitting fuck?” he yelps.

“I need to ask you something,” you tell him.

“Get the fuck out,” he says, recoiling from you so fast his back hits the door.

You take a few steps backwards, lifting your hands up. “Is this room soundproof?”

That makes him pause for a second. “Why do you want to know?”

“I need to ask you something,” you repeat.

He stares at you. You can’t see his eyes behind his coloured glasses, making his expression hard to read. You briefly wonder if this how Aradia feels when she’s talking to you. _Probably not,_ you think. _My poker face is awful._ You decide that you need to work on it.

“Did AA thend you?” the troll asks. You’re about to say that you have no idea who AA is when he clarifies, “Aradia. Did Aradia thend you?”

“Whether or not she sent me is irrelevant,” you say, remembering your promise to keep Aradia’s participation secret.

The goldblood frowns at you critically. “How old are you? Five?”

“I’m nine,” you say curtly, “and my age is hardly a matter worth discussing.”

“There’th no fucking way you’re nine,” snarled the troll. “I’m not going to get interrogated by thome liar.”

“I was born on the third of December nine years ago,” you say. “You can easily find that in any recently updated history book in the library. I wouldn’t lie about something so easily examined. Anyway, I suspect there’s been a misunderstanding. If you’re thinking in sweeps, I’d be four.”

“I’m talking to a four-year-old thethauruth,” the troll says sardonically, then barks out a sudden laugh. “Okay, human wriggler, lithen up—I don’t trutht you.”

“I’d hardly expect you to after such a swift encounter,” you say. “I’m not asking you for trust. My questions are oriented towards a completely different angle.”

The troll twitches slightly. “Well, then, thoot ahead.”

“I’ve heard from Equius that you’re a skilled programmer,” you say. “I have certain technological desires.”

“I would athk you if you’re looking for a thex bot, but I thuthpect you’re too young to apprethiate that joke.”

You have to set aside close to thirty seconds just to focus on not making a face at that. “Not the time or the place. Or the audience, for that matter.”

Sollux has the dignity to look embarrassed. “Yeah, thorry, that wath methed up.”

You glance around, noting the computers all around you. Several of them have random wires and other bits sticking out. Empty crumpled bags of Alternian junk food and cans of coffee haphazardly litter the few remaining surfaces not bearing technology. It’s a bit chilly in the room, and you absentmindedly rub your arms. “First question—can we converse freely in here?”

“What the fuck do you think I am?” the goldblood demands. “Of course this place ith completely thafe. There’th none of the Condethe’th hoofbeatht thit here. I make thure of it.”

You allow yourself to relax slightly. “Thank God.”

The troll cocks his head at you. “You’d think the Condethe’th heir and protegé would be more apprethiative of her.”

“She killed my parents,” you say flatly. “I think it’s only reasonable for me to have certain reservations about her.” You don’t explain the part in which you almost forgot about that yourself, in which you let yourself get entangled in the Condesce’s bizarrely charismatic fishing net, in which you thought the Condesce might have actually had some good in her. (Logically, you realize that the Condesce must have some good in her—there’s no way she’s completely evil, that makes no sense whatsoever, and, besides, what even is evil? But you refuse to let yourself acknowledge that, because you’re ashamed of how easily suckered you were, and you have no intention of letting that happen again.)

“Your parenth,” repeats the troll, and you recall that trolls don’t have families.

“My lusii,” you explain.

“Right,” he says, “I gueth that’th kind of a dick move.” Which is as far from understanding as humanly (or trollishly) possible.

“Let’s put this into terms you’d better comprehend,” you say. “She limits my freedom, keeps me away from my sister—whom I was close enough to to have been moirails with, by the way—and whom she also may or may not have killed, and watches me every second of everyday, be it directly or indirectly.”

“Alright, I get that,” the troll says.

“Moving on,” you say. “I need an untampered device.”

“For?”

“Personal reasons.”

“If you weren’t four, I’d have loth to thay about that.”

You sigh. “Is it not enough to want to be able to search things up without the Condesce knowing?”

“No, it’th not. If the Condethe catcheth you, you’ll be in mathive trouble. You theem intelligent enough for a wriggler. Thurely you wouldn’t take the rithk of getting on the bad thide of the only thing between you and brutal dithmemberment in thome kind of time-honoured high-blood ritual.”

You consider arguing, then decide against it. The troll seems pretty stubborn. “I want to find my sister,” you admit, and Sollux stares at you as if you’ve suddenly become a new person.

“Well, thit,” he says. He regards you for a moment before rubbing his forehead. “If that’th the reason you want it, I can help.” You’re surprised at the sudden about-face, and open your mouth to speak, but he shushes you. “Look, I underthtand what it’th like to be mithing your moirail. It thucks bulge like nothing else. I gueth I get why AA thent you to me.” He walks over to one of the intact computers and opens it. “Anyway, long thtory thort, I can help you.”

You stammer out a quick “thank you” before clearing your throat slightly. “Um, that’s not all,” you say.

“Thpit it out, then, I don’t have all day,” the troll says.

“I was wondering if there was a channel of communications that was more secure than Trollian? Just to, um, talk with others-”

“There are literally no online platformth leth thecure than Trollian. Trollian is rock-bottom when it cometh to thecurity.”

“Yes, well, you know what I mean,” you say.

“Who are you going to talk to?” the troll asks.

You nudge your glasses up before responding. “I know it isn’t likely, but, um… In case if I manage to find someone I knew. Or. Yeah.” Despite your incoherent reply, the troll seems to understand.

“You’re really pathetic,” he points out.

You send him an exasperated look, and he turns back to his computer and logs in, carefully blocking the screen from your view with his back. “I can get your a devithe,” he finally said, “and I can help you make a Pethterchum account.”

“Pesterchum?”

“A project I worked on back in Prothpit,” he explains. “It’th illegal in Derthe, thinthe the Condethe doethn’t have acthess to it. The thecurity is exthellent, obviouthly, becauthe it’th my own dethign.”

You nod. Hope is rabidly blooming in your chest, and you quash it quickly. You don’t have the time or the effort for that shit. The troll types something on the keyboard, then stands aside to let you see the monitor. It’s displaying a sign up page. “Pesterchum,” declares the logo at the top, next to an icon of two smiling yellow figures.

“I guess it’d be unwise to reuse my username,” you say.

“Fuck yeth it would.”

“I also suppose I ought to vary it so that my name doesn’t use the same lettering as my previous one.”

“Quit thaying the fucking obviouth and jutht get on with it.”

You take a moment to think before typing in “timaeusTestified”, ignoring the goldblood’s skeptical expression. You let yourself stay with orange, though. It just seems right.

Once your new account is set up, the goldblood walks over to a corner of his room and reaches into a gutted computer before pulling out a phone. “Here you go,” he says.

“Thank you,” you say.

“Now, get the hell out of my room.”

“Wait,” you interject, and the troll groans. “I, um, I’d like to learn how to program. Could I possibly take lessons from you?”

The goldblood looks bamboozled. “Lessons.”

“Yeah.”

“From me.”

“Yeah.” His expression is as blank as Aradia’s normal face, which is never a good thing. “I’ve been taking robotics lessons from Equius,” you explain. “He doesn’t seem to know much about code, which sucks, since I’ve been trying to program one of my projects for a while now, and library books aren’t really cutting it. Also, you’re the only one in the castle who seems to hate the Condesce more than I do, which is nice, I guess.”

“I wouldn’t thay that,” the goldblood says. “I’m jutht the only one dumb enough to thay it out loud.”

“Also, I think teaching me could be a useful way to shift your image.”

“What?”

“From the look of your room, you don’t seem to a very conventional subject of the Condesce. You’re living in the palace, so you must work for her, but you’re located so far in that nobody in their right mind would look for you. You don’t like the Condesce, but you still stay in her palace. Furthermore, you said you’ve been in Prospit before, making your loyalty even more questionable. However, you seem like too much of a vital asset to the Condesce to let go—do you program things for her? Anyway, I imagine the Condesce surveils you pretty closely despite all your precautions. Having time set aside in which you interact with me like a regular person will probably put the Condesce at ease. Also, I sought you out on the pretense that I wanted programming lessons, and I think it’d be safest for both of us if we followed through.”

The troll stares at you before smacking his forehead. “I hate AA,” he says.

“Pardon?”

“Thee probably hath all thorts of ulterior motives in thending you here. I. I can’t believe I’m going to thay this, but fine. I’ll teach you. Not like I have anything better to do. Altho, I can uthe this as as ecthcuse to work leth.” You have no idea what kind of work he does, but you’ve probably reached the edge of his tolerance for curious wrigglers.

“I’ll inform the Condesce of this development, then,” you say, pleasantly surprised by the troll’s apparent willingness to help. “Tomorrow?”

“Seven-thirty,” the troll replies, “in the evening.”

“In here?”

“If you can find it.”

“Okay,” you say. You’re feeling surprisingly cheery. Stuffing the contraband phone into your pocket, you walk over to the metal doors.

“Captor,” the goldblood suddenly says. “I’m Thollucth Captor.”

You note that down in your mind. “I’m Dirk.”

“I know.”

“I mean, I’m not her heir or her prince or whatever. I’m Dirk. Dirk Strider.”

“Yeah. I know.”

You nod, feeling as though you’ve reached a mutual understanding.

“You better find your moirail,” Sollux tells you right before you open the door. “I’m not rithking my neck for thome thtupid failed endeavour.”

“Of course,” you say. “I’ll leave your moirail out of it,” you add.

“If you don’t, I’ll thtab you to death mythelf.”

You allow yourself to smile slightly. You decide you like Sollux.

*****

“Prince Strider!” Equius exclaims as you step out of the room. “What took so long?”

“He needed some convincing before he agreed to the lessons.”

“Have you asked Her Imperious Condescension for permission?”

“I will,” you answer, and Equius launches into a lecture on the audacity of some lowbloods.

*****

theseusGrieving [TG] began trolling )(er Imperious Condescension [)(IC]  
TG: Your Imperious Condescension?  
)(IC: water you want  
TG: I’ve asked a certain Captor for programming lessons in light of some difficulties I’ve had with my current project.  
)(IC: ha  
)(IC: that douchebag R-E-ELY  
TG: Yes.  
TG: Reely.  
)(IC: awwww  
)(IC: you know how unfairly cute you are when you use fish puns  
)(IC: youre preyin on my frondness for you  
)(IC: i cod throw you in the slammer for this  
)(IC: but i mean glubbin water-the-shell-ever  
TG: That was completely indecipherable.  
)(IC: wat i mean is  
)(IC: shore  
)(IC: fuckin go ahead guppy  
TG: Thank you.  
TG: I won’t waste this oppor-tuna-ty.  
)(IC: 38D  
)(er Imperious Condescension [)(IC] ceased trolling theseusGrieving [TG]

You sigh, and tuck the device away. Your hand brushes your newly-acquired Condesce-free phone, and, for some odd reason, you feel a twinge of guilt in your stomach. You scan over your conversation in you head. The smiley confuses you as much as being told that she has “frondness” for you.

Oh God, you don’t understand her at all.

*****

You spend your ninth birthday researching Roxy’s whereabouts. You find nothing substantive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading third (or second, depending on how you perceive prologues) chapter of "Of Sound and Fury"!
> 
> For anyone wanting more Alpha Kids—rest assured, they're coming. For anyone waiting for the DirkJake promised in the tags—yes, it will happen. This is a Dirk-centric fic, meaning that romance won't be the focus, but it does play a relatively important part, especially in the later chapters.
> 
> Finally, as always, comments are greatly appreciated. I'll try my best to respond to everything you guys say, so if you have any questions, feel free to ask.


	4. Probably True

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The arrival of Jane Crocker, a brief philosophical crisis, a change in weaponry, and a pleasant revelation.

When you see her, the first thing you think is that you haven’t spoken to another human being since you were seven. Hell, you haven’t even seen another human being in months. Curiously enough, the human castle staff seem to have rapidly disappeared over the past couple of years, being gradually replaced by weary-looking lowblood trolls. You’re the only human you regularly notice, and that’s only in brief flashes in mirrors. You don’t want to stare—you’d hate to come across as impolite to her—but, Christ, she looks so weird. Her skin is pink, like yours, although slightly darker, and the top of her head is conspicuously hornless. Short dark hair, so unlike the typical Dersite blond, curls around her ears. She’s wearing a thick-lensed pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Behind them, her eyes are big and blue, wide with fear. For some odd reason, you want to run up to her and poke her just to make sure she’s real. She looks fleshy. Who knew that was even a thing someone could be? You wonder if you look fleshy.

Living with trolls has clearly ruined you.

“Don’t be scared, gill,” the Condesce is telling her. The girl bristles slightly. “Introduce yourshellf to the buoy.”

The girl says nothing, just lets her eyes dart around the room, as if willing a convenient escape route to appear before her. You find that you really want to hear her voice.

“Your Imperious Condescension?” you hazard. She turns to you with a single raised eyebrow.

“Yes, guppy?”

The pet name embarrasses you somewhat, and you find yourself wanting to explain it all to the girl. _Yes, she calls me pet names. No, I don’t like it. No, I don’t like her. I’m on your side, I swear it._ Instead, you ask, “Why am I here?”

You had been initially worried when Aradia had knocked on your door to tell you that you had been called to the throne room by the Condesce herself. Automatically, your mind had begun listing all of the things that could have gone wrong—the Condesce might have discovered your contraband phone, your continued search for Roxy’s location, your nighttime sword practices, your complete tolerance of Sollux’s treasonous attitude—quite frankly, any one of the numerous traitorous activities you conduct daily was enough to get you in trouble. “It’s not that,” Aradia, sensing your panic, had quietly assured you before ushering you to your fate.

Your fate, of course, being to enter through the gold-plated throne room doors and see _her_. A human. A human girl with her wrists tied up, sitting on the floor next to the Condesce’s aurelian seat of power, visibly terrified.

When you ask “Why am I here?”, you are also discreetly asking, “Why is she here?”

The Condesce simply smiles at you before redirecting her attention on urging the girl to talk. “Go ahead. Just say your name. We don’t have all day, gill. Anyfin is fin. Name? Age? Favourite precious metal?”

The girl is still trembling. It’s a miracle when she takes a deep breath and opens her mouth to speak. “I’m Jane Crocker,” she says, her voice remarkably firm despite her noticeable shaking. The characteristic Alternian rasp accenting every trolls’ voice isn’t present in her speech, making her sound smooth and fluid, although you do notice just the slightest bit of hoarseness in her words, as if she had been screaming recently. You wonder about what happened to her. You wonder if she had screamed for her mother the same way you had, if she had screamed at the Condesce in all the fury and pain that you had once held, the way you once wanted to do. Your unasked question is answered when she says, “I’m the heir to the Prospitian throne. You killed my father.” There is enough venom in her voice to kill every citizen in Derse.

“Not reely my fault,” the Condesce says dismissively. You focus on not cringing at her insensitive words. Jane does no such thing, instead visibly stiffening, her face morphing into a glare so filled with contempt that you half-expect the Condesce to drop dead.

“You ordered your soldiers to kill him,” says Jane, her voice low and furious.

“Yep.”

“How is that _not your fault_?” she demands.

“He was interferin’ with my plans. It wasn’t anyfin personal.”

“You-” Jane starts, but the Condesce cuts her off.

“Yo, guppy, wanna introduce yourshellf to the gill?”

“Um,” you say eloquently, as Jane whips her head around to look at you. You avoid eye contact by staring at the ground. Shit. You have no idea how to talk to other human beings. You’re completely out of practice and, even worse, for some strange reason, you fervently want Jane Crocker to like you.

“Did you kill his parents as well?” Jane asks the Condesce.

“Irrelevant,” the Condesce responds. “Hush. Let the buoy talk.”

“I’m Dirk Strider,” you tell Jane, copying her first introductory sentence. You hear her inhale sharply. You’re not sure if that’s good or bad, and consider stopping at that, but you continue onwards anyway. “Technically the heir to the Dersite throne. Practically, probably not so much.” A pause. That should be enough. You don’t really feel like talking about how the Condesce killed your parents.

(She did, didn’t she? She killed them the same way she killed Jane’s father. You used to obsess over that fact. Now, all you want to do is forget.)

“Aw, guppy, why would I make you the heir if I didn’t plan on givin’ the crown to you sometime?” the Condesce asks. She beckons you forwards, and you approach her, not entirely sure what she wants. She reaches out to fondly ruffle your hair. “Gotta get this trimmed soon,” she comments. “It’s growin’ trout a little too much.”

“Wait,” says Jane. “You’re… You’re Dirk Strider?”

“Yeah,” you say lamely.

“That can’t be possible,” she insists. “ _She_ -” a quick gesture at the Condesce “-killed the entire Dersite royal family.”

“Not the entire family,” says the Condesce. “Just the lusii.” 

It takes you a moment to fully understand what she’s just said. _Just the lusii?_ That must mean only your parents were killed. Which means…

Roxy’s alive.

She must have managed to escape, then. You imagine her as you last saw her, a tiny, energetic thing, a giggling ball of positivity and fun, blonde hair tangled up in knots even Kanaya couldn’t undo, dressing in bright pink skirts and blouses. You think of her sneaking out, creeping by the Condesce’s guards and running into the night, her wild hair a rippling sheet of silver in the moonlight. Where is she now? What’s she doing? What’s she like? Is she happy? You can’t imagine an unhappy Roxy. In your mind, she is always optimistic, her worldview tinted the same colour as her irises.

You dearly hope that Roxy is happy. Please let her be happy. All you want is for Roxy to be happy.

“Dirk, guppy,” the Condesce says, and you snap back to reality. She’s frowning at you, her arms and legs crossed. “He’s usually much more verbose,” she’s saying apologetically, “but I guess he’s feelin’ orcaward seain’ another human after so long.”

Jane is looking at you suspiciously, her blue eyes narrowed, her head slightly tilted. She looks a little bit like a detective, and you’re instantly provided with the mental image of her with a mustache and a pipe. No. No, you refuse to giggle. You will not randomly giggle in front of both the Condesce and the first human you’ve spoken to in two years. Your poker face is remaining firmly locked onto your face. Not a single twitch of your lips will break it. Except you think this might be an inherently funny situation. Because, the thing is, you actually really want to see Jane in a mustache. Also, you’ve always been terrible at handling nerves. These past few months have been stressful, and your gradual removal of emotions from your face has been taking a toll on your frazzled mind, and, holy fuck, Roxy is alive.

You may be the slightest bit overwhelmed. You might also suddenly burst into hysterical laughter. Shit. Why is it so silent? Why are they both looking at you? Speak, dammit.

“Your Imperious Condescension?” you try. Luckily, your voice is as empty of emotions as your head is full of them. Meaning your voice is about as dense with emotion as interstellar space is with particles.

“Yeah, guppy?”

“Why am I here?”

“I thought you’d want to sea her,” she says. “Help with homesickness or somefin.” Homesickness, huh? You distinctly remember missing home. You still do, you think. It’s just that it’s getting harder and harder to remember what home is.

“Besides,” the Condesce says, “my biologist said something about human buoys liking human gills. Before I had him krilled for incompetency, of course. Some crap about buoys and gills bein’ intimate.”

You and Jane shoot each other horrified looks. Well, at least the two of you seem to have been able to briefly unite due to the Condesce’s misunderstanding of human reproduction. Then, the Condesce waggles her eyebrows at you, and you realize that she hasn’t misunderstood at all. 

Holy crap, everything is awful.

“I’m just squiddin’,” says the Condesce, letting out a burst of high-pitched laughter. “Guppy, you’re free to go. I’ll sea you tomorrow mornin’.”

You bow quickly, deciding it’s safest to be polite, and quickly exit the room. You’re intensely aware of Jane’s puzzled gaze on you as you leave.

*****

You know you shouldn’t be practicing so late into the night—you’ve got breakfast with the Condesce next morning, as always—but, for some reason, you just can’t sleep. You’re not entirely sure how to feel about this afternoon. It’s confirmed quite a lot of what you previously suspected—Roxy is alive, the Condesce is continuing her conquest in Prospit (it doesn’t seem like she’s been there personally, though), the Condesce is still a murderer. You suppose that’s sort of nice. Well, knowing that Roxy is still alive is nice, at least. That is, unless she died during the two years that have passed since your separation. What if she died somewhere in the streets, cold and hungry? What if she gave too much trust to a stranger and ended up sold to the black market? What if she-

You interrupt your increasingly panicked thoughts by increasing the speed of your lunges. _Lunge. Parry. Riposte._ Back and forth, you duel with your imaginary opponent, flashstepping around your shadowed room, a pale spectre in the darkness. You block out your thoughts on Roxy as you feint, you block out your thoughts on Jane as you counter-parry, you block out your thoughts on the Condesce as you sink your blade into your opponent’s chest.

You stand in your room, your breathy pants shattering the silence, your hands trembling so much you almost drop your sword. The moment you still, the thoughts come rushing back in, whizzing back and forth in your mind, taunting you. Holding back a growl, you drop back into a fencing position, as if you can somehow fight away the worries that plague you.

You don’t stop until you accidentally cut your face when executing one of your more daring moves. The sword was heavier then you’d thought, and you’d overbalanced. The last thing you wanted to do was fall and make enough noise for someone to investigate, so you’d instead stumbled slightly, trying to lift your weapon closer to yourself to stabilize your centre of gravity. In your haste, you pretty much smash your face against the edge. You fall asleep with blood dripping down your cheek, finally too exhausted to think of anything at all.

*****

“You’re hurt.”

Those are the first words out of Aradia’s mouth when you open the door for her.

“It’s fine,” you tell her.

Aradia frowns. She drops the set of freshly-ironed clothes she’s carrying into your startled hands. “Get dressed,” she says. “I’ll be back soon.”

She comes back with a bottle of clear liquid and a small roll of gauze. She tears some gauze off with a sharpened fingernail and dips it in the liquid before dabbing your cut with it. You flinch slightly. It stings. The overpowering scent makes your nose wrinkle.

Aradia discards the alcohol-soaked gauze, then rips off a longer section from the roll. She wraps it around your head a few times, covering the cut.

“This seems somewhat unnecessary,” you tell her. “It’s not a particularly bad cut.”

“It’s quite deep,” counters Aradia, “and it will significantly worsen should it become infected.” She finishes up, tucking the end of the gauze under the rest of the bandage, then peruses your face. You keep your expression as blank as possible, grateful for the sunglasses covering your eyes.

“I seem to remember a time when your face conveyed what you thought,” she says.

“That’s funny,” you tell her, “seeing as I don’t.”

Aradia’s eyes soften slightly. “What did you do to get it?”

“The cut?” you ask, knowing full well that that’s what she’s referring to.

“Yes.”

“It was an accident,” you explain. “I was feeling distraught after my audience with the Condesce and the Prospitian heir. I wasn’t being as prudent as I usually am.” Which is all true enough, if not exceedingly vague. Aradia seems to accept your lack of a response, going back to examining your bandages.

“Prince Strider,” she says very quietly, “you must keep that cut hidden. Sword-inflicted wounds are not uncommon to anyone in this palace, and everyone, from the servants to the highblood nobles, can easily identify one.”

You suddenly feel very stupid. “Oh.”

“Should she ask to see it, I’d advise you be cautious.”

“Yes. Of course. Thank you, Aradia.”

Aradia gets up to lead you to the dining room, and you stand up as well. Before opening the door, she gives you one last look. “Whatever you’re doing, Prince,” she says, “stay safe.”

Her gaze is grave and concerned. You realize that Aradia must care about you for some reason or other. She serves you diligently—that’s her job—but she also does little things like sneaking you advice and bigger things like referring you to Sollux.

“I will, Aradia,” you tell her. “I hope you do the same.”

*****

“Why is Jane Crocker here?” you ask the Condesce over breakfast before she can comment on your injury.

“You jealous, guppy?”

“Of course not,” you say hastily. “I was just curious. Is she your designated heir for Prospit?” As you say that, you realize you’re not entirely sure how Prospit works. You think they have kings and queens the same way Derse has, and you assume that the crown must be passed through the royal family, but you’re not sure. You resolve to do some research on Prospit’s politics.

“Not yet,” say the Condesce, “seain’ as I don’t have Prospit under my control yet.” You nod, secretly relieved. Your poker face holds up successfully, though, because the Condesce doesn’t remark on any sort of potentially treasonous emotion you might be displaying.

“Why do you want Prospit under your control?” you ask her.

The Condesce chuckles. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You’re not a troll.”

As always, being told that you won’t understand pisses you off. “I don’t see how that impedes on my understanding.”

The Condesce’s expression is, well, condescending. She smiles at you indulgently before continuing on in a voice dripping with paternalism. “Whale, guppy, trolls are a species of progress. We’re motivated to expand our empire not because it’s useful, but because we want to. At least, I want to, and I don’t give a flyin’ fuck about what everyone else thinks. It’s part of bein’ a fuschia-blood. It’s literally ingrained in my DNA. You’d know about that, seain’ as you’ve been doin’ all that research in the library. Anyway, why do I do this? I’d say I do it for the halibut.”

That isn’t the response you wanted. You had expected something a little… Deeper?

“So, you killed all those people and forced the rest of the population to suffer just because you’re selfish?”

“Call it shellfishness if you wanna,” said the Condesce. “I call it instinct.”

It’s not until later, after a solid two hours of reading up on Prospit’s convoluted history, that you abruptly realize that the Condesce’s answer was much more complicated than you’d given it credit for. The Condesce is a fuschia-blood, meaning she is prone to bloodlust, cruelty, and a deep love for material wealth. She can’t do anything about it. Sure, she can suppress her desires, but it’s not like she can choose to disregard them entirely. They’ve always been part of her and they always will be. Fine, she doesn’t exactly try to stop herself from fulfilling her gory dreams, but, then again, what reason does she have to do that? She was literally raised as the prospective ruler of an empire, told at an early age that she was better than everyone else, trained to hurt and kill in order to gain her current position. Everything in her life has taught her that she should act exactly as she does now. Is she to blame for the biological and societal factors that have shaped her to become who she is today? And, if she is to blame, at what point did her behaviour become her fault? Was it when she was just a grub, killing to feed her lusus, or was it when she first assumed the throne, when she had to kill her ancestor in order to survive? Was it when she began to implement even crueller measures on her own citizens, or was it when she began her conquests on her neighbouring kingdoms?

The Condesce is guilty if she had free will over determining who she became. That you accept. What you don’t know is if she had free will. Everything in her life has been driving her to do one thing or another. How could she have broken out of that pattern?

Every cause creates an effect. Every effect exists in reaction to a cause. Jegus Christ, in that case, does anyone have free will? If your actions are all determined by a cause, and if those causes are all in turn effects in their own right determined by a cause, that means that neither you nor the Condesce nor anyone else you ever knew had a choice in what they were doing. Which means free will doesn’t exist. Which means that the Condesce… isn’t guilty?

That can’t be right. 

To rephrase the question: Is the Condesce guilty even though she had no choice over her terrible actions?

Also another way of phrasing the question: Is it possible for anyone to be guilty if they have no choice over their terrible actions?

Your head hurts. You’re more confused than ever.

After a good ten minutes of sitting with your forehead firmly pressed into the table in front of you, Equius asks you if you’re alright. “Have I ever had a choice to be?” you demand aggressively, and he hesitantly backs away before telling you that he’s taking you to see Aradia.

*****

“Did someone hurt you?” Aradia asks, carefully unwinding the gauze around your cut. You’re together in your room, Equius having hurriedly fled the scene, announcing that highblooded trolls such as himself did not have the proper soothing characteristics necessary to care for grubs. You resent his characterisation of you as a grub, but you’re nonetheless grateful for his absence.

“No,” you answer Aradia.

She peels the bandage off. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“Unintentionally.”

“Hmm. Well, it seems fine. The bleeding seems to have stopped, at least. It may scar, though.”

“I don’t mind,” you assure her.

“Her Imperious Condescension may,” Aradia says. “Hold still.” She dips the cotton ball she’s holding into a jar of alcohol. You steel yourself for the harsh sting.

“Will the Condesce—sorry, Her Imperious Condescension—be able to tell? That it’s a sword-wound, I mean.”

“I hope not. Turn slightly, please. Yes, like that. How did you unintentionally cut yourself in the face?”

You sigh. “I may have made a slight miscalculation,” you admit, somewhat embarrassed.

“How so?”

“You don’t usually ask so many questions.”

“If my deductions are correct, and you’ve been training yourself in swordfighting, I, well, I’d like to keep you as safe as possible.”

“Are you volunteering to teach me?”

“No. I don’t have much talent in fighting. However, I do have some other methods of helping.”

“More dubious connections?”

“Of a sort.”

“That’s asking a lot of you,” you say, frowning.

“It would not be asking if I were the one to offer.”

“I promised your moirail that I wouldn’t involve you.”

“My moirail means well, but he doesn’t see the bigger picture.”

“And you do?”

“Of a sort,” Aradia says again.

“You’re deliberately being vague,” you say, frustrated.

“I am. Turn the other way, please.”

You follow her instruction. “How do you plan to help me?”

“May I see the sword?” The question throws you for a bit of a loop, and you raise an eyebrow at her. Aradia shudders slightly. “You learned that from her, didn’t you?”

“Pardon?”

“Lifting an eyebrow like that,” Aradia says. “Her Imperious Condescension does it relatively frequently.”

That makes you pause, trying to scan through your memories. The last thing you want to believe is that you’ve picked up the Condesce’s mannerisms. “My mother did it quite often as well,” you say. “At least, I think she did.”

“I see,” Aradia murmurs, sticking an adhesive bandage to your face. “The sword, then?”

“Right.” You walk over to your dresser and open it, shifting aside socks and undergarments to reveal the rusted blade. The room grows darker, and you realize that Aradia has closed the curtains. She examines the sword as you pull it out and hand it to her. She rests a hand on the edge, then runs hers fingers along the worn leather grip and down the pommel.

“This is too big for you,” she notes. 

“I imagine it also isn’t necessarily of the highest quality,” you say.

“You’re correct in thinking that.” She frowns. “It must be difficult practicing with such an unwieldy weapon.”

“It’s fine,” you say.

“It’s not. Don’t worry, I have an alternative.” You open your mouth to ask her what her “alternative” is, but she shakes her head at you. “I will bring it to you tonight,” she says. “Keep Equius away from me. After he has accompanied you to your respiteblock and left, inform Sollux. He will not like my plan, but he will relay the information to me regardless.”

You’ve never heard Aradia be so authoritative. Her expression is as empty as ever, but her eyes seem filled with a strange new sentiment, something that burns into you and fills you with apprehension.

“Is this safe?” you ask her.

“As safe as anything can be under her,” says Aradia. Her eyes are ice and fire. Although she doesn’t stress the pronoun or otherwise highlight it in any way, you get the sense that Aradia really hates the Condesce.

“Will you be okay?”

“As okay as I ever am.”

“Aren’t you the cautious one?”

“As cautious as I can be.”

You look her in the eyes. “Stay safe, Aradia.”

“As always, Prince Strider.”

*****

You end up distracting Equius by getting him to participate in an “IRL” roleplay session with you and Nepeta. You’re sitting in the royal gardens, under the shade of a blindingly bright statue of the Condesce. Beside you, Nepeta is sprawled in Equius’s lap. He keeps on chiding her about the position, accusing her of being “informal”, but you notice he doesn’t bother to push her off. Nepeta, on her part, just smiles and boops Equius’s nose. It is, all in all, a pleasant afternoon.

By the time you get back to your bedroom, the sun has already set. Aradia brings you dinner, which you eat under Equius’s watchful eye. You finish quickly, and Equius, in an exceptionally generous mood, volunteers to bring the plates back to the kitchen. Unfortunately, he ends up smashing them, and you assure him that you’ll be able to clean up the porcelain shards yourself. After he leaves, you pull out your contraband phone. There are already nine unread messages.

twinArmaggedons [TA] has begun pestering timaeusTestified [TT]  
TA: what the actual fuck, DK?  
TA: what diid you 2ay two her?  
TA: what diid you tell her two do?  
TA: 2eriiou2ly, ii wiill kiill you.  
\-- timaeusTestified [TT] is now an idle chum! --  
TA: yes, thank you u2ele22 text.  
TA: that was real fuckiing helpful.  
TA: 2triider  
TA: an2wer riight thii2 moment.  
TA: ii actually want two murder you riight now.

Christ.

TT: Before you decide to storm my room to electrocute me to death with your psionics, hear me out.  
TA: fuck you.  
TT: Ahem.  
TA: fuck your2elf.  
TT: She offered to help me.  
TT: As to what this help entails, I have no fuckin’ clue.  
TT: I questioned her about the safety of her actions and reminded her of your desire to keep her safe. Despite that all, she was determined to go through with her plan.  
TT: Seeing as she’s usually pretty careful, I figured following her plan would be the best course of action.  
TA: you accepted her plan de2piite not knowing what iit wa2.  
TT: I guess that sounds like a flawed decision in retrospect.  
TA: youre an iidiiot.  
TT: I suppose I am, although I will point out that I can hardly be expected to make the best decisions seeing as I have two sweeps’ worth of experience less than you.  
TA: that’2 hoofbea2t shiit and you know iit, 2triider.  
TA: youre the one alway2 complaiining about “age beiing used a2 a guiidliine for determiiniing iintelliigence or competency.”  
TT: Here I am as a young child being threatened by a terrifying older man using alarmingly obscene language.  
TA: fuck off  
TA: everyone above the age of fiive 2eem2 liike a “terriifyiingly older man” two you  
TA: fuckiing four 2weep old wriiggler  
TT: I think you’re getting off-topic.  
TA: riight.  
TA: actually  
TA: fuck.  
TA: frankly, now that iim readiing over thii2 agaiin, iim embarra22ed.  
TT: Understandable.  
TA: iim tryiing two apologiize, you dumba22.  
TT: Were you?  
TT: That’s actually a little surprising.  
TA: fuck you.  
TT: I’m moved, actually. I’ll cry tears of genuine joy for you later to express the true extent of my emotions. Not the time for that, though.  
TT: Tell me, do you know the plan?  
TA: not all the detaiil2, but ii can fiigure out plenty from what she told me.  
TT: I’m assuming she told you to tell her when it would be safe to come to my room?  
TA: 2he diid.  
TT: Well, then. It’s safe for her to come to my room.  
TA: fuck no iit i2nt.  
TT: Safe as can be, I mean.  
TT: Safety is relative right now.  
TA: iim not helping her with thiis 2tupiid plan.  
TT: She seemed confident that you would.  
TA: well, ii gue22 2hes wrong.  
TT: …  
TA: what?  
TT: …  
TA: oh for fuck2 2ake.  
TT: …  
TA: youre an ab2olute nook2taiin, 2triider.  
TT: …  
TA: …  
TT: …  
TA: …  
TT: …  
TA: god fuckiing   
TA: just  
TA: ii told her.  
TT: Thanks.  
TA: 2he miight get hurt from thii2.  
TT: I would say that I can protect her, but I think we can both agree that that would be both untrue and pretentious of me.  
TA: 2he can defend her2elf.  
TA: a2 long a2 2he2 not beiing 2tupiid.  
TA: whiich 2he i2 currently beiing.  
TT: I trust her to be smart.  
TA: ii u2ed two.  
TT: I’m sorry, I guess.  
TT: I know it must suck to not be able to keep your moirail as safe as possible.  
TA: no.  
TA: hell no.  
TA: were not haviing thii2 dii2cu22iion.  
TA: at lea2t, iim not haviing thi2 dii2cu22iion wiith you in particular.  
TT: Fair enough.  
TA: ii ju2t  
TA: nevermiind  
TA: be careful.  
TT: Of course.  
TT: I promise.  
twinArmeggedons [TA] has ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT]

*****

Aradia knocks on your door less than a minute after you end your conversation with Sollux. You open the door for her, and she steps in. She’s holding a box full of neatly folded clothes.

“What is this?” you ask once the door is closed and the curtains drawn.

Aradia shushes you with a finger on her lips. She walks over to you and sets the box on your bed, then begins to take out each article of clothing, pulling out everything from crisp white dress shirts to an especially arrogant-looking pair of poofy pants and a delicate silk skirt stained a deep, bloody red. You frown at her, baffled, but she persists in piling more and more mismatched clothes until the box is empty.

At least, you think the box is empty until she pries apart the bottom of the box to reveal a long, slender object. She extracts it from its hiding spot and hands it to you. It’s a sheathed sword. Only, once you slide the gleaming blade out of the wooden scabbard, you suddenly realize that it isn’t the sword—sure, it’s a bladed weapon with a discernible grip and a sort-of crossguard, but at the same time, it’s strange and lovely and not at all like the heavy-handed bluntness of the rusted training sword you’ve been using. It’s much thinner, its figure curved ever-so-slightly, its silhouette dynamic and graceful. You gently place a hand along the edge and press your skin against it. Almost instantly, you feel the sting of the smooth steel biting into your flesh. You curl your fingers around the warm wetness in your palm (it doesn’t really hurt all that much, does it?), then hold up the weapon. You can’t see it very well in the dark. All you want to do is throw open the curtains and watch the moonlight dust the blade with pale ephemeral frost. You glance at your hand. Blood is black in the dark, you remember. Black as ink.

“It’s gorgeous,” you whisper to Aradia, and, despite not being one to usually use that word, it seems fitting. 

You think you glimpse the faintest upwards twitch of Aradia’s lips. “I’m glad you think that.”

“It’s not a sword, is it?”

“It’s a katana.” _Katana._ You mouth the word, each silent syllable rolling off your tongue feeling much too clunky to act as a descriptor for the elegant, slim blade in your hand.

“Where did you get this?”

“It was already in my possession,” Aradia says. You open your mouth to ask her more, but she cuts you off with, “No more questions. Try it.” You respect Aradia enough to shut up.

You stand up, then drop down into your fencing position, shifting slightly as you familiarize yourself with the weapon’s lightness. You flashstep back and forth for a bit, then lunge, parry, riposte, parry, slashing and thrusting at an unseen adversary. You move faster and faster, the katana singing as it slices through the air, your body whirling furiously with your combined force and velocity, a frantic spinning top pirouetting again and again endlessly, like an ice dancer spiraling through ever-tighter figure eights.

If your previous sword was an extension of your body, the katana is a full part of it. It feels as if you’ve regained the functioning of a third arm you had never known of before. Its movements are natural and fully within your control, instantly responding to every flick of your arm and wrist. For the first time, you feel real joy as you execute your exercises, a quickfire giddiness that shoots up and down through your chest like lightning.

You don’t want to stop. You don’t ever want to stop.

Aradia holds up a hand, and you stop.

“You’re good,” she says. You can’t make out her expression in the dark.

“Thanks,” you say, unsure what else to utter.

“Honored, sir.”

You take a couple of deeper breaths through your nose. The katana trembles in your hands. “Is this yours?”

“It’s yours.”

“Oh. You’re giving this to me?” It seems wrong, somehow, to allow her to casually hand over such something surely so immeasurably precious.

“I am.”

“You’re too kind.”

“I assure you, I have my own ulterior motives in this.”

“Could I hear them?”

“You could.”

“May I hear them?”

A pause. “At a later time, if you don’t mind, your majesty.”

“Of course,” you say, despite your burning curiosity. The least you can do is be patient in return for the kick-ass katana she’s just forked over for free.

Then again, was it for free? Aradia claimed to have ulterior motives. What could they possibly be? You consider that she might be trying to get you to fall in debt to her, but quickly cross that out. You’re already way too far in debt with Aradia to even bother digging that hole deeper. You fell in that pit when you were seven and you’ve spent the past two years dropping farther and farther in. You’re not sure if it’s even possible for you to get into more debt to Aradia.

Aradia returns to your bed and grabs her box. “The sword,” she tells you, and you hand her the katana. She shakes her head, and you grab your training sword. She takes it from you, hiding it in much the same fashion she hid the katana, and piles the clothes littered on your bed back into the box. She leaves you a black tank top and a casual pair of loose-fitting pants. Seeing your questioning gaze, she says, “There ought to be a reason for this visit.”

Of course. You nod. “Thanks,” you say. “For the clothes. The katana. Everything.”

“It’s my honor to serve, sir,” she says, and you think she smiles at you as she quietly opens the door and slips out into the empty corridor.

“Stay safe, Aradia,” you whisper after her. She doesn’t act like she notices your words, but you think she must have. You think you almost hear her answer, but the stale dead air of the hall refuses to bring her words to you, and by the time you step forwards to chase after them, they are long gone.

*****

Equius is re-stationed as Jane Crocker’s personal guard, and you are left free. The Condesce winks at you when she tells you the news. “Consider it a birthday present,” she tells you, and you’re surprised, because you had no idea she even knew what those were. You had no idea she bothered to keep track of time in years the way you still do. You had no idea she cared enough to figure out when you were born, and when the anniversary of that date would pass.

Your actual birthday is two days after you’re freed from Equius. Aradia is busy with something other than taking care of you. You suppose it’s only natural that she have other duties besides attending to the whims of the kingdom’s child prince. You spend the day with Sollux. You’ve recently finished Squarewave, and have taken to regularly battling him. He’s painfully easy to beat. You’re working on a new rapbot to solve that issue. Sollux, despite his complaints on how idiotic your project is, is helping you. 

Neither of you talk about Aradia’s gift to you. You think Sollux knows about it—being Aradia’s moirail, it’s like she explained everything to him—and you suspect he understands a good deal more about the exact meaning of the katana, but, out of respect for both him and Aradia, you refrain from asking. Aradia will explain in her own time, probably. That’s what you keep on telling yourself in order to ignore how much your mouth desperately wants to interrogate Sollux.

Thankfully, over two years of living under the Condesce has done wonders for your self-control, and you are as stoic as ever as you tinker with your creation under Sollux’s critical eye. You once wondered why Aradia seemed so inscrutable. You never expected for that characteristic to be a learned skill.

When Aradia comes to usher you to your room, Sollux stands up and pulls her into the room. They stare at each other for an uncomfortably long time, Sollux seeming pensive and Aradia impressively impassive. Then, Sollux whips off his glasses, and you catch a glimpse of red and blue before he leans in to whisper something into his moirail’s ear. Aradia doesn’t so much as blink. “There is no need for concern,” she say very calmly.

“There better not be,” Sollux snaps. “I will perthonally murder you if you tho much as raise a thingle eyebrow at the fithbitch.”

“As expected of my caring moirail,” says Aradia, her face exceedingly straight. You’re not sure if she means it as a joke. Sollux doesn’t seem to know either, and sighs. He gives Aradia a quick hug, which Aradia returns halfheartedly.

“Stay safe, Aradia,” you tell her when she leaves your room. It’s become a standard expression of parting between the two of you.

“As always, my prince,” Aradia replies. You don’t know when she started using the possessive pronoun. Neither of you draw attention to it, but you’re sure that she knows that you notice. You think you like it.

*****

Being ten isn’t so different from being nine. You continue to attend your robotics lessons with Equius and your coding lessons with Sollux. You finish building your newest rapbot by the end of the year and name him Sawtooth. After a couple of battles with him, you determine that he is simply the best there is at rapping. It doesn’t stop you from challenging him whenever you get bored.

The library is still your favourite haunt in the palace, and you spend hours there, reading up on everything you can get your hands on. You spend too much effort on searching up perspectives on free will and its impact on guilt. You still cannot decide if the Condesce is guilty. It doesn’t help that she’s being extraordinarily friendly towards you.

At night, after you tire yourself out with fencing exercises, you burrow under your covers and trawl through various news websites in the hope that you’ll find something relevant. The press is getting worse and worse nowadays, reporting on the most inane topics and spending alarming amounts of time on praising the Condesce and her most recent exploits. After a couple of weeks of useless research, you begin focusing instead on the Condesce’s invasion of Prospit. You scan through Prospitian publications and learn that she is getting disturbingly close to the capital.

Jane and her father, the previous king, had been outside the city, attending some sort of important ceremony, when the Condesce had struck. Now, Prospit is in disarray. They’re trying to coronate Jade Harley, Jane’s grandaunt, the only surviving adult of Prospit’s royal family; however, it appears that she hasn’t been seen in years, having left the capital with her grandson after some sort of lengthy scandal.

The first time you see Jane after the meeting with her in the throne room is in the library. You’re rummaging through a shelf on Alternian slam poetry when the heavy wooden doors creak open. Nobody visits the library except for you and, on occasion, Aradia or Equius. Alarmed, you scramble out of view. Shuffling footsteps sound against the wooden floors of the library, almost drowned out by the heavy stomping you recognise as Equius’s gait. Jane must have decided to come, then.

You stay out of sight until the footsteps have been replaced by the rustling of pages. Then, you sneak out of your aisle, silently making your way towards the exit. You’re almost successful in leaving unnoticed, but the door creaks as you open it, and you freeze.

Jane looks up from the thick tome she’s reading, her eyes instantly focusing on you with the intensity of those of an eagle. You’re about to run when she calls out.

“Wait!”

Her voice isn’t angry or menacing, the way it was in the throne room. Instead, it’s blatantly, painfully desperate.

“Please,” she adds, and the word sounds soft and pleading. You notice that the book in front of her is on Prospitian history. Didn’t you do the same thing she did back when the loss of your parents was still fresh and bleeding in your mind, combing through Dersite history books and caressing the black-and-white faces of your loved ones?

You glance at Equius. He’s watching the altercation worriedly, as if considering whether or not allowing the two human royals in the palace to interact constitutes as treason.

“Her Imperious Condescension wants me to speak with the Prospitian heir,” you assure him, carefully avoiding Jane’s attempts to make eye contact. “If it still concerns you, though, I can always ask her.” You take out your phone.

“I,” he starts, then shakes his head. “No, if Her Imperious Condescension has given you her permission, it would be dreadfully insubordinate of me to question it.”

You nod. Then, hesitantly, you let your gaze wander to Jane. She’s staring at you fixedly.

“You sound like us,” she says.

“What?”

“Human. You sound human.”

“I am human,” you point out. It’s one of the few things you know for sure, the one thing that nobody in this palace will ever let your forget. Still, under Jane’s keen scrutiny, you almost find yourself doubting it.

Jane bites her lip. “Could you show me the shelf for Prospitian classical literature?”

In other words: _“Let’s talk somewhere private.”_

You don’t think it’s a good idea to acquaint yourself with Jane Crocker. You know next to nothing about her. Even worse, you’re acting odd around her—fidgety, nervous, desperate to please—against your own volition. That makes for a volatile combination, one ideal for making terrible decisions. Besides, haven’t Prospit and Derse been enemies since just about forever? Sure, tensions had gotten better since your father took the throne, but that doesn’t mean that they aren’t still relevant. For all you know, Jane could very much resent you simply for your nationality.

On the other hand, Jane is human. All you want to do is cling to her, to soak up her humanity, to talk to another member of your species who understands what you’ve been through, who understands that violence and fear are not and should not be the norm. Jegus Christ do you miss getting to be human.

Isn’t that the key issue here? Her humanity. It’s what draws you in, what scares you witless, what makes your words stutter and your heart pound. It’s what you’ve almost forgotten about, living so far away from anyone like you. It’s what you remember every time you chat with Sollux or smile at Aradia. It’s what breaks your heart on the few occasions you take out the photo you hid in the still-unfinished book stuffed in your dresser. It’s what makes you stare out the window whenever Roxy’s birthday passes.

_“You sound like us,”_ Jane had said. She’d seemed almost surprised, as if she’d been expecting you to speak in the raspy Alternian dialect the trolls used. As if you were no longer human.

You make your decision.

“There’s an extensive collection near the east end of the library,” you tell Jane. “I can show you. While we’re at it, it may be useful to visit the Dersite collection as well. It’s deeper in the library and might take some time to reach, but it’s well worth it.”

In other words: _“Of course. Let’s talk.”_

Jane smiles slightly. It doesn’t reach her pale blue eyes. She gets up and follows you into the maze of books and bookshelves, her shuffling footsteps resonating in the stillness of the dusty library. You’re both silent as you make your way past the leatherbound volumes lined along the walls.

“How big is this library?” Jane asks you when you finally stop. You inhale as deeply as you can while still remaining subtle. This’ll be fine. You know more about the library than any other human or troll in this castle.

“It’s the official Dersite library,” you tell her. “It’s always been large, but my family has been adding to it over the centuries. My mother was in charge of it before the Condesce took over. She’d expanded it more than any other former ruler before her. So, to answer your answer as ineffectually as possible—it’s really fuckin’ big.”

Jane actually giggles at that. “I guess that’s a pretty appropriate response,” she says. “I’m not quite sure what else I was expecting.” She sighs, and glances around.

“Come here,” you say, and head into a shaded section of the library. Jane frowns, but nonetheless heeds your directive. You sit down next to a musty pile of books. Jane follows suit.

“I assume you wanted to talk?” you ask.

“I did,” Jane confirms. She hesitates, before saying, “You’re acting differently right now. More relaxed, I guess.”

You snort. “I’m anything but relaxed,” you admit.

“Really?” Jane looks you over. “You hide it well.”

“I hide it as well as I need to,” you say. It’s not lost on you that this is a very Aradia-like response.

Jane tucks her knees in and leans against a shelf. “Tell me: How did you survive?”

“Pardon?”

“You were eight when she took over Derse, weren’t you?”

“Seven, actually.”

“That’s even worse. You were young and you must have been scared, and, well, she killed them. Everyone that mattered to you.”

“Not everyone.”

“She killed most of them and locked you away from the rest.”

“...Yeah.”

“I’m twelve,” Jane says. “I’m five years older than you were back then, and I’m terrified. I… I wake up every morning scared to death that something will happen. I keep on thinking of my father, and I keep thinking of what happened, of what the Condesce did, and, well. I miss him, and I hate her, and I can’t even find a private place to cry without that awful troll guard watching me and reporting everything he sees to her. I’m pathetic, and… I can’t imagine living the way you do.”

You’re forcibly brought back to the first months after your parents’ deaths. You think of crying under the covers of your bed and screaming bloody murder at the Condesce in your head and heart. Then, you think of Aradia and her kindness, of Nepeta and her relentless cheer, of Sollux and his determined bluntness, even of Equius and his clumsy attempts at helping. Jane doesn’t have that. Jane is alone and afraid, stuck in a foreign kingdom, surrounded by a foreign people, a stranger in a vast devastated land, drowning in her own grief.

“I started off much worse than you,” you say to her. “I stayed in bed and cried and barely ate. All that shit. Then, eventually, I got used to it. That’s how you cope. You get used to it.”

“I don’t want to get used to this,” Jane says.

“I didn’t either,” you say.

Both of you are silent for a moment. To your surprise, you’re the who ends up recommencing the conversation. “I had help.”

“Help?” Jane asks.

You nod. “I was assigned a, well, a servant, I guess. She might very well be my favourite person here. There are others too. I can’t mention them all to you, but they helped.”

“You have friends, then?”

You think about that. “Yeah,” you say. “Yeah, I do.”

“That’s nice.” Jane sighs. “I have friends as well. I mean, I had friends. I mean- Oh, bother. I’m sure you understand what I’m saying. I’ve always been close with my cousin. He’s a bit of a silly kid, but he’s got a good heart. There’s another girl as well. I met her online a few years ago, and she and Jake and I used to chat on Pesterchum every day. I’ve been wondering how they’ve reacted to my capture. Jake must be out of his mind with worry. The big fool’s probably got it in his mind that he needs to launch some dramatic rescue effort. As for Roxy, well, she’s probably joking around with Jake, trying to keep him distracted, all the while desperately looking through the Internet for any sign of me.”

She rambles on for a little bit longer, but you don’t hear a word. Roxy. She mentioned Roxy. Could it be possible that…?

“Oh dear, I really am sorry,” Jane suddenly says. “I must have bored you. I have to apologize for that. It’s just that it’s been so long since I’ve gotten to talk to someone, and I really do miss my friends-”

“It’s not that,” you assure her, then pause. “Did you mention someone named Roxy?”

Jane blinks. “Yes. She’s one of my friends.”

Your heart pounds. “I think I might know her,” you say very carefully. “What’s her last name?”

_Lalonde. Please say Lalonde._

“Maryam,” Jane replies.

Your immediate reaction is one of disappointment. Roxy Maryam, not Roxy Lalonde. Of course you’d never be so lucky.

Except then you suddenly remember who Maryam is, and your heart soars. Kanaya! Her last name is Maryam, you always heard your mother call her that when she was trying to be fancy, all “Ms. Maryam, might I be so bold as to mention how stunning you look in that dress?” or “Why, Ms. Maryam, your eyes are the only stars I wish to admire tonight.” Kanaya must have escaped with Roxy. They’re both alive, then, Roxy perhaps having disguised herself as Kanaya’s daughter. They’re both alive, and Jane fucking Crocker is the key to reaching her.

“Holy shit,” you say, and you think your poker face might have failed you at last, because you can feel your mouth twisting its way into a smile. “Holy fucking shit.”

“What?” Jane demands. “You know her?”

You subtly pinch your arm. Maybe it’s childish of you to do, but you need to make sure that this isn’t a dream. You can’t afford for this to be a dream. You can’t afford to have Roxy so close to your grasp and lose her in the blink of an eye.

Luckily, you don’t think you’re dreaming.

“My sister,” you finally manage to get out. It’s barely even a whisper. “My sister’s name is Roxy.”

“I thought it was Roxanne Strider.”

“Lalonde, actually. She took my mother’s last name. Anyways, that’s not relevant. We always called her Roxy. Her name is Roxy, and my mother’s handmaid is called Kanaya Maryam. She disappeared after the Condesce took over Derse. I thought she was dead, but I never found proof of it.”

Jane’s eyes are wide. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Motherfuckin’ oh.”

“You have to talk to her right now,” Jane says firmly

That makes you waver. “That might be taking things a little too quickly.”

“You’ve been looking for her for years, haven’t you?” Jane asks. You nod. “I bet she misses you too. The sooner you two can reconnect, the better.” She frowns. “I can give you her chumhandle, but that’ll be useless without a phone.”

“I have a phone,” you say.

“An untampered phone, I mean,” she clarifies.

“Yeah,” you say, voice hushed, before repeating, “I have a phone.”

Jane looks incredulous. “I thought you were obedient to the Condesce.”

“I’m obedient to a certain point,” you say.

The smile on Jane’s face is the most genuine positive expression you’ve seen her make since her arrival. “Dirk Strider,” she says, “always so full of mysteries.” She says it like it’s a slogan, some sort of tagline she’s been repeating to herself.

“I think you’re trustworthy,” you tell Jane.

“I think the same of you,” she replies.

“Good,” you say. “If that’s the case, I suspect you’ll want to meet my friend.”

*****

“You’re both fucking moronth,” Sollux tells you as he hands Jane her new contraband phone. “Don’t blame me when the Condethe has the two of you publicly exthecuted.”

“I’ll take that risk,” Jane says, her eyes alight with a strange new mischievousness, her grin spread wide across her face. Sollux shoots you a concerned look.

“You humanth are crazy,” he says.

“That’s probably true,” you concede.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the routine goes:
> 
> Firstly: Thanks a bunch for reading!
> 
> Secondly: Comments are always appreciated! I'll try my best to respond as always, but even if I don't, know that somewhere, I'm crying tears of gratitude while reading your words.
> 
> Thirdly: Worry not—the Alpha Kids are coming!
> 
> Fourthly: Jesus Christ, why have I used so many exclamation marks in this note.
> 
> Fifthly: The answer to that is very obviously that I'm attempting to cover up my very blatant lack of a soul by pretending to feel emotions with the employment of a surplus of shout poles.
> 
> Sixthly: Please ignore points four and five.


	5. If It Pleases

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The consequences of procrastination, multiple confrontations, a new best bro, and a perspective on the Condesce.

gutsyGumshoe [GG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT]  
GG: Heyyy.  
TT: Hey.  
TT: Seeing as it’s six in the goddamn morning, you better have a good reason for bothering me.  
TT: I don’t wake up early for just anyone.  
GG: Don’t pretend you haven’t been awake for hours!  
GG: You pestered me at four in the morning just yesterday.  
TT: A case study doesn’t prove a trend.  
GG: You told me once that you hate sleeping in.  
GG: You also told me you hate sleeping early.  
GG: Actually, I think you were just saying that you hated sleeping in general.  
TT: Well.  
GG: Don’t be contrary with me, mister!  
GG: :B  
TT: Alright, fine, you caught me.  
TT: A-plus and all that for our resident detective.  
TT: How could I ever have been so foolish as to believe myself capable of fooling her?  
GG: Oh, shush.  
GG: I wanted to ask you about contacting Roxy.  
GG: I was chatting with her last night, and she told me that she didn’t trust my “secret helper.” She seemed to think you were a troll working for the Condesce.  
GG: I guess it’s fair to say that you haven’t talked to her yet?  
TT: I haven’t.  
GG: ...Dirk.  
GG: It’s been over a month.  
TT: I will, eventually. When I feel the time is right.  
TT: I can’t just launch into this without a proper plan.  
GG: A plan?  
TT: Yes.  
TT: I’ve gotten through a rough draft of multiple lines I can use, as long as responses to possible replies she might provide.  
TT: It’s still a work in progress.  
GG: You’re writing a script.  
TT: Yes.  
GG: To talk to your sister.  
TT: Yes.  
GG: Don’t you think you’re overthinking this?  
TT: No.  
GG: She’s your sister. It’s not like she’s going to refuse to talk to you. I can even back you up if she doesn’t believe you.  
TT: It’s not necessarily that.  
TT: This is a delicate matter. Neither of us have heard anything about each other in over two years.  
TT: I can’t just pop in and be like, “Yo, long time no see, wanna chat?”  
GG: Why not?  
TT: There are too many spaces for error. I don’t trust myself to be able to communicate normally with her, not when I’m so out of practice when it comes to proper social interaction.  
TT: The last thing I want to do is make a bad impression. It would be massively detrimental to any sort of relationship between the two of us that I might attempt to rekindle.  
TT: Rest assured, though, I’ll reach out to her eventually.  
GG: I still think you’re overpreparing.  
GG: Roxy is spontaneous. I doubt she’d follow whatever script you have written out for her.  
TT: That’s one of my main problems. I’ve been coming up with increasingly unlikely scenarios in order to compensate.  
TT: I would ask you to proofread, but I have a feeling that this shit might be a little too personal.  
GG: Just go talk to her, Dirk!  
GG: I bet she misses you as much as you miss her.  
GG: She’ll be so happy about hearing from you that she won’t care about how awkward you might be.  
TT: I mean, logically, that does make some sense.  
GG: Thank you!  
TT: Still, I can’t help but think acting rashly is going to end badly.  
TT: I’ve never been good at improv.  
GG: It’s not improvisation. It’s conversation.  
TT: What’s the difference?  
GG: Ugh.  
GG: Come on. Just give it a shot.  
GG: I promise she’ll love you.  
TT: I’ll think about it.  
GG: You better!  
gutsyGumshoe [GG] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT]

With a sigh, you pocket your device. You have breakfast with the Condesce in an hour. You need to get prepared for the day.

You exit your room to head to the washroom. A quick walk across the hallway later, you’re showering, scrubbing at your skin under the scalding water pummeling your face. You’re not sure when showering became one of your go-to stress relief techniques. Probably after you got Roxy’s chumhandle. You had taken a long shower that night, trying to wash away the uncertainty buried under your skin. It had worked well enough, and you had left feeling refreshed and alert. The feeling of readiness showers give you never really lasts long, but you like it enough to keep on returning to scour the fear from your body.

After your shower, you brush your teeth and dry your hair. After a few days of starting your morning shower routine, you noticed a bottle of hair gel tucked into a cupboard alongside bottles of expired medicine. You’d tried slicking your hair back, the way your father used to do, and had hated it so much that you’d raked your hair upwards to get rid of the awful hairstyle. Your hair had ended up in weird spikes. You hadn’t bothered washing it out, ignoring Aradia’s mild declaration of surprise and the Condesce’s raised eyebrow. “Prettyin’ up for the gill, I sea,” she’d said, and you’d looked so unamused that she laughed and assured you that she’d been “just squidding.”

You’d actually kind of liked the spiky hair, though. It reminded you of the protagonists from stylized comics you used to read when you were younger. You’ve been experimenting with it, and you think you’ve settled on something you like. 

It’s comforting to run your hands through your hair, styling it just the way you like. For once, you feel like you have control over yourself. You wonder if you should tell Aradia that you want to choose your own clothes. The Condesce has technically given you permission to, but you haven’t really been exercising it much. Aradia seems to have it handled pretty well. You don’t know anything about clothing or fashion, but you’re pretty sure that some quick research online or in the library will be more than sufficient in filling you in on the basics.

After finishing up with your hair, you head back to your room. Aradia’s waiting in front of the door, carrying her usual pile of ironed clothes. You thank her and take your time changing into them.

Breakfast with the Condesce goes smoothly. This is lucky, since you had decided to try something especially daring.

“Your Imperious Condescension?” you ask.

“Watcha want, guppy?” she asks. “You’re never this polite unless you want somefin from me.”

“I was thinking about Jane Crocker and Equius Zahhak,” you say. The Condesce lifts an eyebrow, but otherwise says nothing. “Jane’s told me once or twice that she doesn’t feel comfortable being constantly watched by a stranger from another species. I was thinking that it’d be more useful if I were to be her appointed guard instead. I can give you daily briefings on her behaviour during our breakfasts, and she’ll feel less resentful of Alternia. Furthermore, it frees up Equius and allows him to return to his apprenticeship under Horuss Zahhak.”

The Condesce grins at you. You can tell that she’s suspicious of your proposition, although you don’t think she’s bothered by it. If anything, she almost seems amused, as if she finds it adorable how her little guppy is finally growing into his rebellious preteen phase.

“You two schemin’ on overthrowin’ me or somefin?” she asks you teasingly.

“Obviously not,” you say. “That would be dumb and impossible to conduct in our current situation.”

The Condesce ruffles your hair fondly. “It’s the thought that counts, guppy.”

*****

When you’re back in your room, you take out your contraband phone and go to your notes. You need to continue working on your script. It pains you to know how it must look on the outside, from Jane’s perspective—you obsessing over every little detail, from the punctuation to the sentence structure of each line of dialogue.

Jane doesn’t understand. You need this to be perfect. You’re going to reconnect with your sister, and you’re going to do it successfully. You can’t afford to have even one or two hitches in your plan.

Your phone silently notifies you on having received a text over Pesterchum. It’s probably Jane again. Either her or Sollux, anyway. You fully intend on ignoring it, except the notifications keep on popping up. Whoever is contacting you is determined.

Frustrated, you open up the Pesterchum app to tell the sender to shut up. The moment your eyes land on the strange new chumhandle in front of the lines of unfamiliar pink text, your heart freezes.

_Fuck,_ you think. There goes your script.

tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT]  
TG: listen up janeys troll buddy  
TG: i dont trust u  
TG: i dont kno who u r but theres no way anyone would just b like  
TG: yo i wanna help this poor human girl so ill directly go against my terrifynig fishbitch dictator  
TG: *terrifying  
TG: so im just telling u  
TG: dont  
TG: dont u fucking dare  
TG: im not dumb  
TG: ur not fooling me

Your first reaction is shock. How…? Jane. She must have given your chumhandle to Roxy in the hopes that it’d push you to talk to her. Anger flares up in your belly. She had no right. She had no fucking right.

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering gutsyGumshoe [GG]  
TT: Fuck you.  
\-- gutsyGumshoe [GG] is now an idle chum! --  
TT: Seriously, go fuck yourself.  
TT: You had no right.

Your phone is blowing up with texts from Roxy. When Jane replies a few minutes later, you’re still fuming.

GG: What happened?  
TT: You know full well what happened.  
GG: I really don’t.  
GG: I haven’t done anything. I don’t know what you could possibly be referring to.  
GG: Dirk?  
GG: Are you alright?  
TT: You gave her my chumhandle.  
GG: I what??  
TT: Roxy. You gave her my chumhandle.  
GG: No!!!  
GG: I would never!  
GG: Did she…?  
GG: Crap.  
TT: What?  
GG: Did she contact you?  
TT: tipsyGnostalgic pestered me less than ten minutes ago.  
TT: She repeatedly told me that she didn’t trust me, then told me to leave you alone.  
GG: Oh no.  
GG: Roxy…  
TT: I don’t see how she could have found me without your help.  
GG: I swear I didn’t tell her anything about you.  
GG: All I’ve ever told her is that I have a friend in the palace who helped me acquire my phone.  
GG: I think Roxy must have been able to find your chumhandle by herself.  
GG: She’s an exceedingly talented hacker.  
GG: I don’t know how she did it, but I’m sure she did it by herself.  
TT: Well fuck.  
GG: I agree.  
TT: I guess, in a way, it’s kind of a relief.  
TT: That I’m not the one screwing up our first conversation, I guess.  
TT: Although it does mean that I’ll have the rewrite the script.  
GG: Like I said, Roxy is unpredictable.  
TT: I get that now, yeah.

You rub at your temples. Christ. You can feel the beginnings of a headache forming.

TT: Sorry about the accusations.  
GG: No need to apologize, Dirk!  
GG: You were a little aggressive, I guess, but it was warranted considering the circumstances.  
GG: About the circumstances right now: What are you going to do?  
GG: Roxy’s still texting you, isn’t she?  
TT: Yes.  
TT: I’m actually impressed by how fast she can type.  
TT: My notifications are piling on top of each other at a frankly superhuman rate.  
GG: Oh dear.  
GG: Will you respond?  
TT: Honestly, I don’t think that’s a good idea.  
GG: Why not?  
TT: I quite frankly have no fuckin’ idea what to say to her.  
TT: To understate things, this isn’t exactly how I anticipated our first encounter being like.  
GG: Ok.  
TT: Is that all?  
TT: Don’t you want me to talk to her sooner?  
GG: I do, but not if you’re uncomfortable with it.  
GG: You’re a careful person. I admire that.  
GG: I wouldn’t want you to force yourself into doing something that you don’t want to do.  
TT: That’s…  
TT: Actually really thoughtful of you.  
TT: Thanks, Jane.  
GG: Of course!  
GG: You’re my friend as well. I only want the best for you.  
TT: Right.  
TT: Shit, that sounded sarcastic.  
TT: I mean, yeah. I feel the same.  
GG: Smooth. :B  
TT: I mean this in the most loving way possible, but just.  
TT: Shut up.  
GG: Hoo hoo!

You smile wryly at the pale blue text on your screen. The notifications have stopped coming. Sighing, you open the new chat with Roxy and skim through the pink text.

TG: respond already  
TG: i know u can c this  
TG: cmon  
TG: im not going to stop until u answer  
TG: troll  
TG: troll  
TG: trool  
TG: *troll  
TG: actually  
TG: u know what  
TG: fine  
TG: dont answer  
TG: i know ur reading this rite now  
TG: listen to me  
TG: i love janey and ill protect her with my life  
TG: and ill murder u if u touch a single hair on her head  
TG: and i mean that literally  
TG: dont touch her  
TG: especially not on her head  
TG: or on her hair  
TG: thats just creepy  
TG: but i also mean that figuratievly  
TG: *figurativeyl  
TG: *figuratively  
TG: im serious about that  
TG: i know where u live  
TG: i mean  
TG: thats kinda obvs i guess  
TG: but u know what i mean  
TG: i know everything i need to know about u  
TG: i can hurt u if i want to  
TG: which i do  
TG: but which i don’t intend on actaully doin  
TG: *actually  
TG: because im giving u the chance  
TG: to back the fuck away  
TG: which u should do  
TG: just to make that clear  
TG: ok  
TG: thats p much all i have to say  
TG: i mean not all but thats enough for right now  
TG: if you dont follow my suggestions ill know  
TG: so just  
TG: doit  
TG: fuck  
TG: *do it  
tipsyGnostalgic [TG] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT]

Oh God. She sounds both identical and vastly different from the Roxy you remember. The rambly prose closely resembles the way she used to talk, and the bright pink text colour reminds you of the bubblegum-hued skirts she loved. The swearing is new, as are the death threats, but you guess that was inevitable considering the events of the past few years.

Your finger hovers over the reply button for what feels like forever before straying to the power button. Your phone turns off with a click, bubblegum text lost in the impenetrable black void of the screen.

*****

After your midnight katana practice, you check your phone one last time. You’ve received a slew of new texts. You almost decide to not check, but your curiosity gets the better of you in the end, and you tap on the Pesterchum app. As the loading screen appears, you slide into bed and burrow under the covers. There’s a certain comfort of being wrapped by the soft comfort of your blanket that’s stayed with you through the years.

You’re surprised when, for the second time today, you’re confronted with unfamiliar text and a new chumhandle. You don’t recognize this one, though.

golgothasTerror [GT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT]  
GT: Now look here mister helper troll!  
GT: Ive heard that youve been acting in a rather unbecoming fashion towards my good cousin jane.  
GT: Its my duty as a gentleman and a responsible cousin to tell you stop that immediately!  
GT: Or else.  
GT: *Points double pistols threateningly.*

Holy shit. You actually have to stifle a snort as you skim through the dark green text. This must be Jake, then. Jane’s beloved younger cousin. You think back on what she said about him during your first real conversation. _“He’s a bit of a silly kid,”_ she had said, _“but he’s got a good heart.”_

Well, you certainly understand the first part now. Jegus Christ, who the hell uses roleplay speak when attempting to sound menacing?

Should you respond? Rationally, you know that you shouldn’t be interacting with him at all. He’s an unknown variable, someone you have almost no information on. Despite not seeming dangerous in the slightest so far, he could easily prove harmful in other ways. After all, he doesn’t seem all that bright. He can’t be too careful either if he decides to barge in and randomly threaten you with little information about who and what you are. If you’ve learned anything these past few years, it’s that reckless people are always the first to die.

Still, he intrigues you. There’s something about him—maybe his roleplay speak or the blatant sincerity and enthusiasm behind his words or even just the colour of his text—that reminds you a little of Nepeta. Nepeta. When was the last time you spoke to her? You haven’t really chatted with her in a long while. You forget the last time you roleplayed together. It was before your tenth birthday, that’s for sure. God, you miss Nepeta.

You hesitate for a moment before clicking on the reply button.

TT: Might I mention that it seems exceedingly “unbecoming”, as you’ve put it, to threaten a presumably innocent person with threateningly-pointed double pistols?

He responds almost immediately.

GT: Absolutely not in this instance!  
GT: Dont try using your tricky alternian wiles on me.  
GT: Ive already been well informed of the situation.  
GT: The situation being that youre manipulating my dear cousin into trusting you.  
TT: Informed by whom?  
TT: Roxy?  
GT: I-  
GT: Wait.  
TT: Firstly, there’s no need to “trick” Jane into trusting me. We’ve both settled on a mutually beneficial relationship built on both circumstance and trust.  
TT: Secondly, you automatically assume both that I’m a troll and a male. Both you and Roxy do that, actually. I’m not going to say whether or not you’re right or wrong on that assumption, but I’ll still point out that neither of you have very solid proof backing it up.  
TT: Which is to say that Roxy doesn’t have very solid proof backing it up, and your only proof is Roxy’s word.  
TT: Thirdly, why would I even want to gain Jane’s trust had I not wanted a genuine friendship with her? It wouldn’t make any sense for me to do so.  
TT: The Condesce has no delusions about Jane’s loyalties. It’s not like I would get any reward for telling her that Jane is willing to collaborate against her. It just shows that I’m willing to do the same.  
TT: Fourthly, supposing your faulty theory on my supposed cunning motivations is correct, I’d like to point out that Jane’s a notably skeptical person.  
TT: Wouldn’t you think that she’d be able to tell if I had malicious intentions?  
TT: You seem to be exhibiting a lack of confidence in your own cousin’s abilities to determine what’s best for herself. I’d argue that that’s insulting to her and demonstrates a clear lack of knowledge in her areas of expertise.  
TT: Seeing as you’ve completely mischaracterized both Jane and myself, I hardly see how you consider yourself a keen judge of honor and integrity.  
TT: In conclusion, your arguments are invalid, and I’d argue that an apology is due to the victim of your thoughtless accusations.

A pause, then-

golgothasTerror [GT] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT]

You actually laugh at that.

*****

You’re pleasantly surprised when, in the morning, you notice that golgothasTerror has sent you a few more messages.

golgothasTerror [GT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT]  
GT: Alright ill admit it.  
GT: It seems dreadfully rude of me to just jump on you like that.  
GT: Especially seeing as i havent even introduced myself or explained the situation to you.  
GT: Im sorry.  
GT: *Withdraws pistols shamefacedly.*  
golgothasTerror [GT] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT]

Aw. He apologized.

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering golgothasTerror [GT]  
TT: I’m surprised. Moved, even.  
TT: I rarely get the pleasure of witnessing such a sincere apology.  
TT: Let it be known that your confession of guilt was accepted.  
TT: Anyway, there’s no need to introduce yourself.  
TT: I’d prefer it if I wasn’t obligated to introduce myself back. Anonymity is a blessing I intend on using to its full potential.  
TT: As for you, I think I’m already sufficiently informed.  
TT: I hope to hear back from you soon, Jake English.  
timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering golgothasTerror [GT]

Maybe that’s a little creepy, but you have a feeling that English’s face will be priceless when he reads your messages.

*****

Jane seems happy when you tell her of yesterday’s negotiation with the Condesce, although you can tell she is suspicious of the Condesce’s motivations.

“I’m pretty sure she thinks we’re plotting against her,” you tell Jane, and she blanches. “I think she finds it cute, though. I mean, she’s borderline encouraging me to attempt to overthrow her at this point.”

“That’s certainly befuddling,” Jane frets.

“It’s just the Condesce,” you say, mostly because you’re just as confused as Jane.

You spend the day hanging out with Jane, casually chatting. “I’m sorry about Roxy,” Jane tells you for the umpteenth time. The two of you are sitting on her bed, the harsh winter sunlight filling Jane’s room.

“Don’t be,” you tell her again. “Seriously, I’m starting to think I might actually prefer it this way. At least the ice is broken now. The tension’s been lessened.”

Jane sighs. “It’s just…”

“It’s nothing,” you insist. “Your cousin contacted me last night, by the way.”

You are the master of topic changes. It is you.

“What?” Jane exclaims. 

“Jake, right? His chumhandle was “golgothasTerror.” Dark green text, no punctuation, overwhelming amounts of outdated terminology.”

Jane groans, burying her head in her lap. “Oh Lord,” she breathes.

“He was kind of hilarious, actually. How old is he again?”

“He’s your age, I think,” Jane says. “Ten. In fact, I think his birthday was barely a month ago.”

That surprises you. “I thought he was younger than me.”

“Well, you do act rather more mature than your age would lead people to suspect,” Jane says.

“Do I?” you ask. You realize you don’t really know anything about how people your age should act. It’s not like you’ve gotten the opportunity to speak to many of those. Even before the Condesce’s takeover of Derse, the only kid you got to interact with was Roxy. You don’t think you’ve ever had a conversation with someone exactly your age before. 

“You do,” Jane confirms.

“I suppose that isn’t surprising,” you say, “seeing as I’m the youngest in this palace.”

Jane frowns. “I guess you are,” she says, as if she hadn’t realized that before. “Does that ever get lonely? Being the youngest, I mean.”

You shrug. “Did it ever get lonely being the oldest out of your group of friends?”

“Sometimes,” Jane admits. “They didn’t always understand some of the things I talked about. Then again, being heir to the throne exacerbated that lack of understanding. I’m not sure if I felt misunderstood because of my age or my position.”

“That’s similar enough to how I feel. Sure, I’m the youngest, but I’m also the only human, on top of being the Condesce’s heir. Being treated differently likely has virtually nothing to do with my youth.”

“Jake wasn’t too rude, was he? I know he gets over excited sometimes, and he trusts Roxy with his heart and soul—he thinks she’s an infallible genius—but I swear he isn’t a bad kid.”

“He threatened me with imaginary pistols,” you say, and snort at the alarm on Jane’s face. “He apologized afterwards, though.”

Jane seems relieved by your last sentence. “That boy will be the death of me,” she sighs. “I keep on telling him to be critical in his thinking, but he keep telling me of the importance of ‘being open minded’, whatever that’s meant to mean.”

“He seems alright,” you tell Jane. “I don’t mind his enthusiasm. It’s funny as fuck.”

“I’m glad you think that. Still, I’ll be sure to send a very disappointed message to him. You know what? I think I’ll do that for Roxy as well! They both deserve a good chiding after the ruckus they’ve caused.”

“As amusing as that sounds, I genuinely don’t mind the finger-pointing. Not anymore, at least. It’s honestly a little cute how earnest they are in defending your honor against imaginary evil trolls.”

“Regardless of whether or not you mind, _I_ mind. I’m not letting them get off scot-free after harassing one of my friends.” She says it fiercely enough that you back off. Jane Crocker is, at times, terrifying. You feel nothing but the utmost sympathy for Roxy and Jake.

There’s a knock at the door, and both you and Jane jolt off the bed. Aradia enters the room. Her brow is slightly creased.

“Is something wrong?” you ask her. Her expression can’t possibly be indicative of anything good.

“Her Imperious Condescension has asked for me to pass on a message,” Aradia says, and you feel your heart still.

“Did she?” you ask evenly.

“She did.”

Well, fuck. This can’t be good. “Perhaps I ought to hear it.”

“Perhaps you should.”

You wait as patiently as you can, your heart thrumming uncomfortably, your eyes narrowed on Aradia’s. She nods at Jane. “Some privacy, if it please you, ma’am.”

“Of course.” Jane’s eyes dart from Aradia to you, then settle on the ground. “I’ll be out. Be careful, Dirk.”

The moment the door is closed again, Aradia crosses the room and sits down next to you. “Her Imperious Condescension wishes to have an audience with you in her throne room,” she says gravely.

“Does she-”

“I wasn’t done.”

You tamp down on the questions trying to escape from your mouth.

“Her Imperious Condescension asked for me to give you this.” Then, with deliberate care, she hands you your katana.

“Oh crap,” you whisper, because she knows. She knows, and you are royally fucked. “Oh, shit. Aradia, what the fuck do I do?”

“Stay calm,” Aradia advises you. “Stay calm, protect whomever you can protect, and be as honest as you can afford to be.”

You take the katana from her. It trembles in your hands, as steady as a leaf caught in a gust of autumn wind.

_Stay calm,_ you repeat to yourself as you follow Aradia to the throne room. 

_Stay calm,_ you repeat to yourself as you approach the surly blueblood guards standing in front of the signature gold doors. 

_Stay calm,_ you repeat to yourself as those very same doors creak open.

_Stay calm-_

There’s a figure leaping towards you, a golden trident flashing towards your throat, and your instincts take over. You roll away from your attacker, managing to land in a firm fencing position. The figure turns to you, wild hair ablaze in the violent golden light of the throne room, and lunges again. You parry, and your weapons clash with such force that your entire body shakes from the contact. You jump back, and the figure sneers. Without missing a beat, you flashstep forwards and slash at her. She dodges easily and returns the blow. Back and forth you attack and defend, stepping forwards and back, lunging and dodging and retreating. The pacing is vicious, and your harsh breaths sound painfully loud to your pounding ears. You taste blood in the back of your throat.

Your blade is a flurry of silver around you. Haloing your opponent is a golden blur. You think that, to a bystander, the two of you must look almost ethereal, a pair of deadly creatures surrounded by clouds of precious metal, spinning and twirling and dancing at breakneck speed to the beat of shrieking metal and harried breathing. For one breathless moment, you think that you’re fine—you’ve been training for over a year now, and the motions you’ve practiced are swift and fluid. The song of battle sends adrenaline coursing through your blood, the clashing of swords and the frantic patter of footsteps echoing through the throne room in all their wild and savage beauty.

Then, in the blink of an eye, your weapon is brusquely knocked out of your hand, and you are standing alone, unarmed and vulnerable, in front of the monster who killed your parents.

You hope you’ll get to see them after you die.

“Impressive,” the Condesce drawls, before carelessly tossing her trident to the side. It clatters to the ground. You flinch at the whip-fast motion and at the sudden noise it produces. The Condesce approaches you at a leisurely pace, and you brace yourself, anticipating her violent retribution, but she grins down at you before mussing up your hair. “You use too much of that Cod-awful product,” she notes, wrinkling her nose. “Makes your hair all stiff and sticky. It used to be so soft.”

You’re speechless. Is she… Forgiving you? No, that can’t be it. The Condesce doesn’t forgive traitors. She executes them as brutally and publicly as she can. Only, you don’t think she’s doing that right now. Maybe she intends to do it soon? Why the hell is she smiling at you, then? Is she trying to trick you into lowering your guard? Why would she even need to do that? You’re completely powerless right now!

“Careful, guppy, your confusion is showin’,” the Condesce says, and you rearrange your face back into your regular blankness. Despite it no longer appearing on your face, you feel no less confused.

“Not gonna talk? You shore do choose cod times to shut up.” The Condesce chuckles pleasantly. “I guess that performance spoke for itself. I gotta admit, I dolphinately never expected you to be a fighter. Never thought that something so tiny and squishy could be so fishous.”

She doesn’t seem angry. Actually, she seems almost… Proud?

“Your Imperious Condescension-” you begin, words quiet and trembling, but she cuts you off.

“None of that! Say it trout loud if you’re gonna say it at all.”

You clear your throat slightly. “Um, Your Imperious Condescension,” you restart, raising your voice, “what are you going to do to me?”

“That’s a good question,” the Condesce says, and your stomach drops. Of course she’d never let you disobey her without a due punishment.

“I’ll accept whatever you dole out,” you tell her, eyes firmly directed at your feet.

The Condesce tsks at that. She cups your cheek in one hand and directs your head upwards. You look into her vivid fuschia eyes. You don’t think you’ve ever made direct eye contact with the Condesce before. Her irises are strange and bright and utterly captivating. You’d call them beautiful had they not been the very pair of eyes that had looked on as your mother had bled out.

“And here I was thinkin’ of how clever my guppy’s become. C’mon, kid! I’d never punish you for something like this. You should think betta of me,” she chides. “Shell, I’ve never been prouder. Any lusus would be delighted to see that skill. You’re so young as well. You must be takin’ after me!”

That sentence horrifies you beyond anything else the Condesce has ever said to you. Taking after her? _Not even in hell,_ you insist in your mind.

“Nah,” she continues, oblivious to your silent dismay. “I ain’t gonna hurt you. Not for this, anyway. What I am gonna do is get you some real trainin’. Shore, you’ve done well considerin’ your circumstances, but you need a reel teacher to reach your full potenshell.”

“If I may, Your Imperious Condescension,” you start, “I don’t mind being self-taught.”

“Whale, I do, buoy,” she says. “No guppy of mine is gonna get anyfin but the best.”

“The best?”

“The best of the best,” she says. You realize what she means half a second before she says, “Come to breakfast two hours early tomorrow. I’ll find somewhere to hold our first ofishal practice. Don’t be late.” She walks over to your abandoned katana and picks it up. She gives it a quick once-over before nonchalantly tossing it to you. You barely avoid getting sliced by the violently flipping blade, and the Condesce snickers.

“Feel free to leave, guppy,” she says. “Oh, and, Megido, dear?” You turn to look at Aradia, who’s still standing at the entrance. Her lips are pressed together in a thin line. Crap. Does the Condesce recognize the blade? If she knows it belonged to Aradia…

“You’re not so different from your ancestor, are you?” the Condesce asks lazily, the question sounding almost like an offhand remark. You notice that Aradia’s sharpened nails are digging into the palms of her clenched hands.

The Condesce’s predatory smile seems to widen ever-so-slightly. “‘Stay safe, Aradia,’” she says mockingly, parodying your typical farewell. Your stomach lurches. Aradia merely bows deeply.

“If it pleases Your Condescension,” she says softly, and the Condesce’s grin momentarily slips before spreading again. Aradia grabs your hand and leads you through the gold doors and away from the figure sitting on the throne.

*****

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering twinArmaggedons [TA]  
TT: Sollux.  
TT: I have a question.  
TA: cant iit waiit?  
TA: iit i2 pa2t miidniight, 2triider.  
TT: I’m aware.  
TT: I’m also aware that you’re very much awake.  
TT: I know what energy drinks do to your brain, Sollux.  
TT: Spoiler alert: They certainly don’t help you doze off.  
TA: fuck off.  
TA: maybe ii am tryiing two turn over a new leaf toniight.  
TA: maybe aa ha2 succeeded iin conviincing me of the 2anctiity of 2leep.  
TA: maybe ii have fiinally deciided that ii am ready to wean my2elf off of my miind alteriing 2ub2tance2.  
TA: have you thought of that, dk?  
TT: Well, no.  
TT: Have you?  
TA: no.  
TT: My point still stands, then.  
TA: whatever.  
TA: what do you have two say?  
TA: make iit quiick. ii have iimportant shiit two work on.  
TT: What’s an ancestor? In terms of troll culture, I mean.  
TT: I’ve been searching it up both online and in the library to virtually no avail.  
TT: Also, more importantly, who’s Aradia ancestor and what was their relationship with the Condesce?  
TA: where the fuck diid you hear about ance2tor2?  
TT: From the Condesce herself.  
TT: I won’t bother recounting all the details.  
TT: Suffice it to say that she mentioned Aradia’s ancestor in what I think was an attempt at insulting her.  
TA: ah, 2hiit.  
TA: what diid you two do?  
TT: I think it would be more accurate to ask what I’ve been doing.  
TA: 2hiit.  
TT: Sollux?  
TT: Don’t tell me you left.  
twinArmaggedons [TA] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT]  
TT: She’s fine, Sollux.  
TT: Nothing notable happened.  
TT: To her, at any rate.

Sollux doesn’t respond again after that. He’s probably busy scolding Aradia for her risk-taking. You can imagine him furiously lisping out a medley of Alternian obscenities and concerned moirail buzz words. It’s probably useless to try and contact him again. You’ll have to ask Sollux about it later, next time you have programming lessons with him. You suppose you could always ask Aradia, and you suspect that that’s probably the most ethical solution, one which doesn’t involve you snooping for her private information behind her back. Still, you doubt that she’d just open up to you. It’s not like either of you have been terribly forthcoming with personal details over the past two years.

You get another notification on your phone. It’s Jake.

golgothasTerror [GT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT]  
GT: I know this may seem awfully rude of me, but might i hazard to ask for your name?  
TT: Why would you need it?  
TT: Has Roxy asked you to do some more sly reconnaissance?  
GT: Er.  
TT: Are you trying to “manipulate me into trusting you?”  
TT: That would be rather “unbecoming” of you, wouldn’t it?  
GT: Geez timaeus i said im sorry alright?  
GT: And im not asking because of roxy.  
GT: I havent told her about any of this actually.  
TT: Then, pray tell, why the hell are you asking?  
GT: Well i realized i was being a right scoundrel for jumping to conclusions like that seeing as i dont know anything about you really.  
GT: So i thought maybe i ought to get to know you better before making any decisions on you.  
TT: I assure you, Jane has nothing to fear from me.  
TT: Would that be more clear if I spelled it out in old-fashioned and, frankly, somewhat sexist terminology?  
TT: I’m being an upstanding gentleman, English.  
TT: There is no one less gentlemanly than me.  
TT: My entire existence can be summed up with naught but one word:  
TT: Gentlemanly.  
GT: Alright timaeus i get it!  
GT: Anyway i believe you. You seem like an honorable sort from what ive heard so far.  
GT: And ive always believed that jane is a keen critic of character. I trust her judgment wholeheartedly.  
TT: Why ask for my name, then?  
GT: You know mine.  
TT: Irrelevant.  
GT: No its not!  
GT: You know my name and i want to know yours.  
GT: Youre interesting. I want to know more about you. Sue me for being curious.  
GT: Besides its only polite to know the names of the friends of my friends.  
TT: I don’t intend on revealing my true identity. Call me pretentious if you want to, but I like the mysterious persona I apparently exude.  
TT: It’s entertaining as fuck.  
TT: However, I have to admit that I find you intriguing as well. It isn’t often that I get the opportunity to casually talk with acquaintances.  
GT: If you cant tell me your name could you at least tell me something else about yourself?  
TT: Introducing ourselves properly, are we?  
TT: I’ll consider it if you start.  
GT: Righty-o!  
GT: My name is jake english and im janes cousin. You know that already but i think its important to start an introduction as fittingly as possible.  
GT: I live with my gramma in prospit.  
GT: We used to travel around a lot but recently weve been forced back to the castle.  
GT: I miss all the adventuring and i think grandma does as well but duty calls and shes got to be a hero.  
GT: Just like in all those adventure stories they used to tell!  
GT: I love those. I used to trace out achilles and odysseus and perseus in the stars each night wishing i could be have as brave as them.  
GT: I cant do that anymore in prospit. They rarely let me leave the castle and certainly not when its dark enough to see the stars.  
GT: Thats who i am.  
GT: Your turn now mister/miss testified!  
TT: Mister.  
GT: Oh ho! So youre not as unwilling to drop clues about yourself as you claim!  
TT: I figured it would be best to get the gender issue done with as soon as possible to facilitate this conversation. Don’t expect any other so-called “clues” forthcoming.  
TT: As for my “proper” introduction:  
TT: My name is insignificant, as is my position.  
GT: Hello insignificant!  
TT: I don’t even know how to respond to that.  
GT: It’s a good one, isn’t it?  
TT: Firstly, fuck no.  
TT: Secondly, self-described gentlemen shouldn’t interrupt others, should they?  
GT: Its just a joke timaeus.  
GT: Are you actually upset?  
GT: I didnt mean to do that. Sorry.  
TT: Nah.  
TT: If anything, I’m amused.  
TT: I’m going to honest with you—that might have been the shittiest joke ive ever heard.  
TT: That, by the way, is a significant accomplishment.  
TT: Congratu-fucking-lations.  
GT: That means a lot to me timaeus.  
GT: *Wipes my eyes with a handkerchief.*  
TT: I’m not even going to ask if that’s sincere.  
TT: Continuing on with my introduction:  
TT: My favourite place in the world is the Dersite library.  
TT: It’s filled with books on just about any subject you could ever want to know more about. It’s one of the largest rooms in the castle, and I’ve gotten lost in it more times than I can count.  
TT: I’m interested in robotics, coding, and philosophy.  
TT: That’s who I am.  
GT: Good golly you must be a proper genius!  
GT: Thats probably why you sound so smart when you write.  
TT: Be still, my beating heart.  
TT: Has Jake English, grandson of Prospit’s soon-to-be queen, complimented me?  
TT: Allow me to melodramatically swoon right here.  
GT: Oh hush!  
GT: I was just being honest.  
GT: Now youre just making it weird.  
TT: I’m going to warn you right now that you should come to expect that occurrence should you choose to pursue this long and treacherous path known as acquaintanceship with me.  
GT: What if i tried for friendship instead?  
TT: Well shit, bro. That’s twice as bad.  
TT: It’s all rocky and overgrown with disturbingly large weeds and probably twists back into itself multiple times just for the hell of it.  
GT: That actually sounds like one of the trails my gran and i hiked two years ago.  
GT: It was near the ocean. We just kept walking circles around this forested area and emerging back on the beach.  
GT: I think the seagulls were laughing at us the whole time.  
TT: As doubtlessly wonderful as that story sounds, I have to cut it short.  
TT: I have to get up early tomorrow. It’s probably best if I spend at least some amount of time unconscious before the morning arrives.  
GT: Damnation!  
TT: Care to clarify?  
GT: Im not saying that to you of course. I strive to be as well mannered as possible.  
TT: A noble pursuit.  
GT: Its just that i really liked talking to you and its a darn shame that i have to stop so soon.  
TT: We can continue this conversation tomorrow.  
GT: Ill be looking forward to it!  
GT: *Double pistols and a wink.*  
TT: Nothing suggestive about that at all.  
GT: Oh shush im ten!  
GT: It was meant to be a farewell between prospective friends.  
TT: Well, then, I’ll take it as such.  
TT: ‘Night, English.  
GT: Goodnight timaeus.  
golgothasTerror [GT] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT]

*****

When you arrive to breakfast two hours early, as per the request of the Condesce, you’ve showered and decided on wearing the tank top and loose pants gifted to you by Aradia. You’re not surprised to see said troll patiently waiting for you when you in the dining room. The moment she spots you, she stands up and signals for you to follow her.

The two of you walk silently for a few minutes. It doesn’t take long for you to realize that you’re headed towards the old training room. It was originally meant for the training of squires and military cadets, but your father had also dragged you and Roxy there to show you the basics of swordfighting. He always brought Karkat along as well, and the two of them would go through basic defense maneuvers, bickering throughout each repetition. 

You haven’t seen Karkat since you were seven. Was he killed alongside your father, or did he manage to escape like Roxy and Kanaya? Knowing him, you suspect he must have been back-to-back with your father, shouting himself hoarse at the Condesce, sickles desperately fending off her brutal attacks. You wonder if he saw your father die, or if the troll fell first. You’re not sure which option you’d consider luckier.

Aradia holds open the training room door for you, and you thank her.

“Stay safe, my prince,” she says under her breath.

“As always, Aradia.”

It’s almost funny how wishful those words are becoming.

“Whale, if it isn’t my favourite guppy!” the Condesce exclaims when you enter. She’s casually seated on an embroidered velvet pillow in the middle of the training room. “Right on time, as well! Worms my heart right up seain’ all this responsibility. My lil’ human’s growin’ up.”

“I think what you’re witnessing is equal parts responsibility and something called not wanting to offend the most powerful troll in the kingdom,” you tell her. Your response is somewhat risky—it could be interpreted as talking back—but, judging by the Condesce’s lax and smiling expression, you think you can afford it.

“Reel sassy, Mr. Strider,” she says, and that actually startles you enough for you to flinch slightly. She’s never called you by either of your names before—you’ve always been her “guppy”, or occasionally her “buoy”, but never Dirk or Strider or Mr. Strider. 

She must be expecting that reaction, because she simply winks at you and gets up from her pillow. “Megido, take the pillow back to my chambers.”

Aradia is slow to respond to that, stationed near the exit of the room, her face stone-still. 

“C’mon, gill, I ain’t got all day.”

“It is my honor to serve, Your Imperiousness,” Aradia says, bowing deeply. She walks to the center of the room and takes care in picking up the cushion, her eyes planted firmly on the wooden training room floor. She leaves in the same manner, not looking up until she’s out of the room.

“Whale, that’s done with,” the Condesce says cheerfully. “Now’s your time to glow, guppy.” She seemingly whips out her trident from thin air, then points it at your chest.

“Lesson number one,” she says. “Watcha do when someone’s got you checkmated?”

_Is this a test?_ “In this scenario, I’d probably back up or dodge.”

“Shell no, guppy! That’s the coward’s way trout.”

Okay, then. Apparently not getting killed is cowardly. How foolish of you to make that grievous mistake. “I could probably parry-”

“Nope!”

“If I duck-”

“You’re not even tryin’, are you?”

You resent this implication, but you refuse to let it show. “If I could thrust my katana-”

“You’re dead.”

“I-”

“You’re dead, guppy. If you’re ever in this position, you’re dead.” She pauses for a moment to let that declaration sink in. “Same with this-” she shoves you up against the wall “-or this-” she smacks your hand and you instinctively release your weapon “-or this-” she kicks your knees out, leaving you flat-backed on the ground “-or this-” she pulls you up and wraps an arms around your throat, effectively cutting off you air supply. You scratch at it uselessly, gagging, your mouth uselessly drawing in air that never makes it to your lungs. _Think! Think think think think-_

You force yourself to go slack, using every ounce of your self-control to not flail and gasp like a fish out of water. The Condesce drops you, and suddenly your katana is in your hand and you’re flashstepping across the room, putting as much space between you and the monster who nearly _strangled you to death_ , drawing in lungfuls of sweet fucking oxygen, and Jegus Christ, your throat is burning and your mind is spinning and there might be real tears filling your eyes. 

Verdict: Asphyxiation is a bitch.

You try to keep your stance as steady as you can as your body is racked with cough after cough, making up for your shaking hands with the firmness of your wary gaze.

The Condesce doesn’t seem surprised by your trick. “Moray of the story,” she continues, as she had merely taken a leisurely break from speaking instead of a full-on strangle-fest around your windpipe, “don’t ever let them push you there.”

You stare at her unblinkingly for a moment. “Noted, Your Condescension,” you finally say, your voice raspy.

“Quick study,” the Condesce says praisingly. “Now, show me your moves.”

*****

You take a lengthy shower after breakfast. You take your time as you dry yourself off and slip on a clean shirt and pair of pants. You frown at the sweaty fabric you’ve heaped on the floor. Unless you get another set of flexible clothes, you’ll need to wear them again for your daily lessons with the Condesce. It seems wrong to bother Aradia with them when she’s been so preoccupied recently.

You take them to the sink and soak them with water. Then, you grab a bar of soap and scrub furiously, lathering the garments with white bubbles. Once you decide they’ve been sufficiently coated in suds, you rinse them with cold water, then wring the liquid out. You hang them out to dry by your towel, then decide to get your hair into shape. It takes twenty minutes for you to accomplish this. You realize you should be leaving now—you need to accompany Jane to breakfast, since she still needs constant surveillance in order to exit her room—but you find you don’t really want to do that. To kill time, you brush your teeth a second time. Then, you wash your hands.

Sighing, you grab your freshly-washed clothing and stop by your room to hang them in the closet. They’re still wet, but you figure they’ll probably be fine by morning. Then, you pocket your contraband phone, which you left in your dresser. You’ve received a couple new messages from both Jane and Jake, and you’re tempted to lie in bed and idly chat with the latter. You’re not actually that selfish, though.

Jane’s door is flung open the moment you knock. “Where in the world have you been, Dirk? I was so worried after yesterday’s conversation! What did Aradia say to you? Have we been caught? Why didn’t you respond to my messages?”

“Sorry, Jane,” you say sheepishly. “Lots of shit has happened.”

“Apologize later. What happened?”

“Let’s get you breakfast first. I’ll tell you when we’re settled in your room, alright?”

You know Jane doesn’t like it, but she keeps her mouth shut as the two of you fetch a couple of pastries and an apple. You get yourself a glass of orange juice just for the hell of it.

“Tell me what happened,” Jane orders you once you’ve closed the door to her room. You take a sip of that sweet, sweet OJ before responding.

“The Condesce was probably suspicious after I asked to act as your guard. I’m not sure if she was the one who searched my room, or if someone else did it, but she found out about some of my more, um, questionable activities.”

Jane pales. “Did she find out about Pesterchum?”

“No, thank fucking God for that. I keep my phone on me, anyway. What she found out about was my katana.”

“Your katana?” Jane repeats, not understanding the word.

“It’s a type of sword,” you explain.

“Oh Dirk,” Jane sighs. “There’s a sword in your room?”

“In my dresser, yeah. Scold me later, there’s more to this story. Anyway, I’ve kind of been practicing my swordfighting for a while. In secret, of course, during the night. I’m pretty sure I started when I was eight. I haven’t stopped since.”

Jane is shaking her head in incomprehension. “Why?”

“At first, I think I was angry. Then, I decided I wanted to learn how to protect myself. Now, I think it’s more of a hobby.”

“Swordfighting is your hobby.”

“Well, a hobby and a method of stress relief.”

“I thought showers are your method of stress relief.”

“They both are. I have several.”

Jane frowns. You decide to disregard her expression for the time being and push on with your explanation. “Returning to the topic at hand—the Condesce found the katana, got Aradia to bring me to her throne room, attacked me out of the blue, told me she was impressed by my skill, then decided to mentor me herself. That’s why I took so long coming here. I apparently have two hours of lessons each morning before breakfast.”

“Ugh.” Jane’s brow is furrowed. “Dirk.”

“I know. The whole thing’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not that. I mean, it is stupid, and I expected more from you of all people, but… This is just typical of the Condesce. She’s turning you into one of her little Alternian pawns. A soldier to toy with.”

“News flash, Jane: I already am one of her pawns. I’ve always been. The whole world is a game for the Condesce, and every single living being is her pawn.”

“That’s not true,” Jane insists. “You’ve been living under her for a long time, Dirk, but I still remember what it’s like on the outside. She can’t control just anyone. She acts like it, but her reach is limited. You’re a great example of that! Despite all the time she spends on manipulating you, you’re still your own person.”

You laugh at that. It comes out harsh and bitter. “Do you honestly think that?”

“I honestly do,” says Jane, her blue eyes blazing. 

“Jane, she practically has me wrapped around her little finger.”

“That’s what she thinks.”

“That’s what she knows.”

Jane bites her lip. “You make your own decisions, don’t you?”

“I don’t know if I do,” you admit a little more testily than you’d intended to. “Actually, that’s a pretty good description of how I feel around and about the Condesce: I don’t ever fucking know.”

“You know you hate her.”

And there it is, back from the dead, cackling about its newfound powers like a shitty cartoon villain—the whole do-I-don’t-I conundrum. “I truly, sincerely don’t know.”

“How? She killed you parents, Dirk! She killed your parents and exiled your sister and took over your kingdom. How can you not hate her?”

“It’s complicated,” you say. You’re met with Jane’s disbelieving expression. “It is,” you insist. “I used to hate her, and then she kept acting nice and it messed with my head. And, before you start talking about Stockholm Syndrome, yeah, I know, she’s a crap person. Like, objectively crappy. It’s just that I can’t help but wonder about things like, fuck, how do I explain this shit?”

“You don’t,” Jane states flatly.

You’re undeterred. “I can’t hate someone if what they do isn’t their fault.”

“That’s not-”

“Just let me talk. The thing is, if you think about it, everything in the Condesce’s life has led to her becoming the terrible person she is today. She’s a fuschiablood, meaning she’s biologically programmed to be bloodthirsty. On top of that, the moment her grub legs dropped off, she had to kill others to feed her lusus. In order to survive, she needed to kill the ruler at the time and inherit the throne. Everything in her life has taught her to be completely ruthless. That’s not even factoring in concepts like free will, which probably doesn’t exist, because those complicate everything even more. Can anyone be truly guilty if they don’t technically have a choice over their actions, Jane? If what they do isn’t their choice, are their actions truly their fault?”

“That’s bullshit, Dirk,” says Jane. Her eyes are cold, her mouth set into a stiff line.

“Maybe it is,” you say, “but I can’t just dispel it. It’s logically sound.”

“The Condesce is evil,” Jane says.

“That’s-”

“Don’t argue with me on that, Dirk,” snaps Jane. “This is the monster who ordered her army to kill my father in front of my very own eyes. This is the monster who had me captured and tied up in order for her to boast about what she’ll do to the rest of my family if she gets her hand on them. This is the monster who’s still attacking my kingdom and slaughtering my citizens for the sake of her own greed. The Condesce is evil. That’s not debatable. That’s a fact. A fact that she’s proven again and again and again. She doesn’t need sympathy or whatever else you’re trying to use. What she needs is a bullet through the heart.”

“Jane-”

“I need to know whose side you’re on, Dirk. Either you’re with her and her tyranny or you’re with me and the rest of humanity—there’s no overlap.”

“Jegus fucking Christ, Jane, of course I’m on your side. I’ve always been on your side.”

“You seemed awfully content to stay with your Alternian friends,” Jane hisses. “I had to seek you out myself in order to talk to you.”

“I didn’t know how to act around another human,” you say. “Besides, there’s nothing wrong with my friends.”

“They’re Alternian.”

“They’re trolls,” you correct, “and I don’t fucking care.”

“There’s a difference between us and them.”

“Biologically, yes. Mentally, to some extent. I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“How can you so freely trust the species that killed your parents?”

“Firstly, that’s not the species’ fault. It was the Condesce who made that decision, and any troll that disobeys her decisions gets an arrow through the heart. Secondly, Aradia and Sollux make the most of their situation. They’ve helped me immensely, sometimes even putting themselves in danger. I don’t see why I shouldn’t trust them.”

“I’m not saying that they’re bad or that all Alter- trolls, I mean- are bad. What I’m saying is that the majority of them aren’t trustworthy.”

“I never dispute that,” you say.

“You don’t seem to fully understand that.”

You bristle. “What the fuck, Jane. I’ve survived here for over twelve times longer than you. I know how to take care of myself.”

“How can you say that when you nearly ended up skewered by the Condesce?”

“I wasn’t nearly skewered. I was the furthest possible thing from skewered. The Condesce was fuckin’ delighted to see me with a weapon.”

“You know full well that she very well might have had you publicly executed for that.”

“She didn’t.”

“That doesn’t matter. What I’m saying, Dirk, is that I’m worried about you. You’re ten, for God’s sake.”

“I don’t see how my age plays into this.”

“You’re young. I keep on forgetting that, but it’s true.”

“As if being twelve makes you any older.”

Jane huffs. “Dirk.”

“Jane.”

“I just- I just want you to be safe. I know I haven’t been much help on that, and I’m sorry, but I do worry about you. You’re always so tense and you act like you don’t care and like you’re not scared, but I know you are. You must be. Every time I see you, I can’t help but think of Jake, and of how happy and open he is. I wish you could be like that, careless and eager and childish, except you can’t, because the Condesce took that all away from you. The Condesce stole your childhood before it even properly started. I’m furious for your sake, Dirk. She hurt you, and she’s hurting you now, and I just want to make her stop.”

You’re silent for a moment, not knowing what to say.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Jane tells you, sensing your discomfort. She sighs. “Do you mind if I hug you?”

You aren’t expecting that particular question, and it takes you a few seconds to fully process the request. The last hug you had was the night the Condesce came. Kanaya had given both you and Roxy hugs and kisses before bed. 

You nod. Jane scoots closer to you and wraps her arms around you. Hesitantly, you lift your arms to hug her back.

Your disagreement is still very much lingering between the two of you, but you understand that you and Jane are setting that aside for the moment being. Right now, you and Jane are clinging on to each other like the opposite poles of a magnet. Had the Condesce been present, she’d laugh at how pathetic you two must look.

Strangely, you’ve never felt safer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I emerge triumphantly, after two hours of programming pesterlogs, to post the newest chapter!
> 
> (Verdict: Pesterlogs are bitches.)
> 
> Anyway, as always, comments are appreciated. I'll respond to any questions you guys have, but I figure I can cool it on commenting to everything, mostly because I feel kind of uncomfortable about artificially inflating my comments count, but also because I have nothing useful to say. Because I am boring.
> 
> Thanks for reading and have a great day!


	6. Stay Safe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A coming-out of sorts, an overdue conversation, two birthdays, a cake delivery service, and a funeral.

It’s late at night, and you are fully aware that you should probably be sleeping. Instead, you’re typing and deleting and retyping words on your phone, trying to figure out how you’re going to phrase this.

GT: Timaeus?  
GT: Youve gone all quiet all of a sudden.  
GT: Is everything alright chum?  
GT: You havent fallen asleep on me have you? *stares accusingly*  
TT: I’m fine.  
GT: Whats the matter? Youre supposed to be the wordy one out of us two.  
GT: This radio silence is a little perturbing if im being quite honest.

You sigh. Jane would probably tell you that you’re overthinking this. _Come on, Strider. Just write down the fucking words. Screw phrasing._

Except you’ve been thinking about doing this for the past two months. You always thought you’d reveal yourself to your sister first, only you ended up ignoring her for so long that you’re extremely hesitant to break the silence now. Jake, with all his bluster and cheer, should be a good trial run. It’ll help familiarize you with the procedure. Not to mention that, for some strange reason, you really want to hear Jake call you by your name.

GT: Its been two minutes timaeus.  
GT: Im starting to get the feeling that somethings not right.  
GT: Do you need to me to pester jane?  
TT: No.  
TT: Seriously, don’t do that.  
GT: Thank god youre back! *wipes brow in relief*  
TT: Hey.  
TT: I need to ask you a question.  
GT: By all means shoot ahead!  
TT: Are you ever curious about my identity?  
GT: I guess.  
GT: I mean it would be nice to be able to know more about you especially since youre certainly an exceptionally intriguing gent!  
TT: I’ve been considering it. Revealing my oh-so-secret hidden identity, I mean.  
TT: I never really planned on leaving you and Roxy in the dark for so long anyway.  
TT: If I had followed my original plans, I would have likely already have introduced myself.  
GT: You already have introduced yourself to me remember?  
GT: We both did less than three months ago.  
TT: I hardly think my introduction was sufficient.  
GT: It wasnt but i think i really got to know you over the past while.  
GT: I might not know your name but i think we already been more than adequately introduced timaeus.  
TT: I’m glad you think that.  
TT: Still, there’s a lot more to me than what I show you.  
GT: I don’t quite understand.  
TT: My name has a significant impact on my identity.  
TT: To hide it would be akin to hiding a fundamental part of myself.  
TT: Quite frankly, as saccharine as this may sound, I don’t want to do that anymore. Not around you, at least.  
GT: Youre making me nervous timaeus.  
TT: Sorry. I swear it’s not intentional.  
TT: Actually, I’m not nearly as nerveless as I want to be either.  
GT: Well if this whole name thing is such a big deal to you then im flattered! That is if youre planning on telling me your name.  
GT: Are you going to tell me your name now?

Fuck. Steady now, Strider. Now is the worst fucking time to be making a typo. Your name is an especially perilous terrain considering the abundance of awkwardness that could be released should your shaking finger misplace a single letter.

TT: My name is Dirk Strider.

Hell fucking yes. Sweet success is yours.

GT: Dick strider?

Nevermind. Jake is an idiot.

GT: Whoops! I meant dirk strider.  
GT: Awfully sorry about that mate!  
TT: Dude, the ‘c’ and ‘r’ keys are a full row apart. How the hell did you manage to mess that up?  
GT: I said im sorry!  
TT: Whatever.  
TT: Do you recognize it?  
GT: Your name?  
TT: Obviously.  
GT: Er let me think.  
GT: Dirk strider… hmm.  
GT: Maybe i should ask roxy.  
TT: Don’t you dare.  
GT: Alright alright.  
GT: Should i recognise it?

This isn’t going the way you intended it to. Then again, you should have seen this coming. Jake isn’t nearly as invested in history or politics as you; it’s likely he doesn’t even know what your parents’ names are, much less yours. Still, it’s painfully anticlimactic.

TT: Try focusing on the last name.  
GT: Strider?  
GT: Dirk. Strider.  
GT: It’s a nice name.  
GT: Hey dirk!  
GT: Your name is dirk!  
TT: Yes. It is.  
TT: I’m shocked.  
GT: Dont be a spoilsport dirk.  
GT: Im simply delighted to be able to finally use it.  
GT: Its a little strange i guess.  
GT: Ive never heard of the name dirk before.  
TT: Does Derrick Strider sound any better?  
GT: Erm no not really?  
GT: Strider does sound vaguely familiar though. Perhaps my grandma mentioned something about it?  
GT: Oh.  
TT: What?  
GT: I think roxy mentioned someone named strider before.  
TT: She did? In what context?  
GT: She was telling me that she used to live in derse before the invasion. Trying to teach me the specifics of dersite history i think.  
GT: Wait…  
GT: Strider.  
GT: Dirk are you the KING OF DERSE?

You can’t help it—you muffle your laughter with your blanket. Holy shit. Jake fucking English does it again. You couldn’t make up this shit if you tried.

TT: The Condesce is the ruler of Derse, English.  
TT: I’m not the Condesce.  
GT: Ah. I admit i feel terribly embarrassed now.  
GT: I really thought i was on to something there.  
TT: I mean, I guess it wasn’t too far off the mark.  
TT: I’m technically part of the former Dersite royal family.  
TT: I’m too young to inherit the throne, though.  
GT: Wait. Youre a prince?  
TT: Pretty much.  
GT: Im talking to prince dirk strider of derse.  
TT: That sounds awkward as fuck mashed together.  
GT: Do i have to call you your highness?  
TT: Jake, you’re a prince as well.  
GT: Ah technically not.  
TT: What?  
GT: Im illegitimate.  
TT: Huh. How did I not know that?  
GT: Maybe because you dont know everything about me?  
TT: I’ll have to do some research tomorrow.  
GT: Oh bother! Why is your solution for everything always going more research?  
TT: It’s always wise to be as informed as possible.  
GT: Its just that you never seem to get time to live a little.  
GT: I never hear about any of the great adventures you go on or the foreigners youve talked to or the daring exploits youve accomplished.  
TT: That’s because I have none.  
TT: I’ve been stuck in this castle since I was seven.  
GT: Stuck?  
GT: As in you never get to leave?  
TT: Never.  
GT: That sounds *terrible*!  
TT: You get used to it.  
GT: You shouldnt have to! Good gosh to think that youve been trapped in the same place for years now.  
GT: How old are you even?  
TT: I’m your age.  
GT: Really?  
TT: Two days younger, to be precise, according to Jane.  
GT: Huh.  
TT: What is it?  
GT: You sound really mature. I always thought you were janes age.  
TT: Jane’s only two years older than us. There’s little to no difference in our respective maturities.  
GT: Thats easy for you to say! Youre already so cool and smart.  
GT: Sometimes i feel like im younger than even roxy and shes a full year my junior.  
TT: Trust me, you sound fine.  
TT: If it makes you feel better, I wouldn’t change any aspect of you had I been given the choice to.  
GT: Awwwww. Youre the best pal a gent could ask for strider!  
TT: You’re taking this surprisingly well. If I were you, I’d at least be somewhat skeptical.  
GT: Come on dirk! You wouldnt lie to me.  
TT: I mean, sure, but you don’t actually know that.  
GT: I don’t have to know it to believe it.  
TT: Is there a difference between knowing and believing? Isn’t knowing just believing something with a lot of proof to back it up?  
GT: Thats what makes them so different strider.  
GT: Im not a scientist. I dont have all the facts neatly arranged to prove that youre trustworthy. I just believe in my heart that youre good and so far youve been exactly that. Youve been a good friend to both me and jane.  
GT: I have full faith that youre a man of the utmost virtue!  
TT: Let’s not talk about my virtue.  
GT: DIRK. IM *TEN*.  
TT: As am I.  
GT: Why do you have to make everything so weird all the time?  
GT: Im trying to be nice and honest with you for once and you always have to go back into your endless spirals of irony.  
TT: Sorry.  
TT: In all seriousness, I’m glad you think that.  
TT: Not the thing about the irony, I mean. Not that that particular innuendo counts as irony, but I’m going to overlook that for the moment. I’m referring to your whole spiel on my supposed trustworthiness.  
TT: I might not necessarily agree with you, and you may have missed my whole philosophical point on the semantics of believing versus knowing, but I appreciate the sentiment.  
GT: I dont have time for your any of your philosophy strider!  
GT: You say you appreciate the sentiment but do you understand what im trying to say?  
TT: Yeah.  
TT: I trust you too, Jake.  
GT: *Double pistols and a wink!*  
timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering golgothasTerror [GT]

*****

GG: You’ll be fine, Dirk.  
GG: I’m certain that Roxy will be delighted to hear from you.  
TT: You don’t think she’ll be pissed off?  
GG: Oh, she definitely will be.  
GG: But she’ll be happy all the same.  
TT: I’m cursing myself for being such an idiot and procrastinating for so long.  
GG: You should have listened to what I told you!  
TT: Yeah, I should have.  
TT: Hindsight is an absolute bitch.  
GG: :B  
GG: Well then, Dirk, it’s best that you learn a lesson and quit wasting time.  
GG: Go talk to Roxy right this instant and don’t come back until you’re done!  
GG: Believe me, I’ll know if you haven’t done it.  
\-- gutsyGumshoe [GG] has blocked timaeusTestified [TT] \--  
TT: Fuckin’ hell Jane.  
TT: Shit.  
TT: Alright. I can do this.

*****

You can’t do this. 

Your hands are trembling so much over the reply button that you accidentally click it.

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG]  
TT:

Well, fuck.

TG: well heeeeyyy there janeys sketch troll helper  
TG: i c uve done absolutely nothing since the last time we talked  
TG: uve actually gone and made things worse now that ure also trickin jakey  
TG: and now u come n send me the worlds most inscutrable text  
TG: *inscrutablee  
TG: *inscurtable  
TG: fuck it u know what i mean  
TT: Yeah, I’m going to have to apologize about that.  
TT: I would attempt to pass that off as some sort of deep and philosophical start to a life-changing conversation, except you strike me as being a skilled detector of bullshit.  
TT: In all honesty, I just accidentally hit the reply button without having typed anything in.  
TG: thats all rlly interesting except for the part where i dont care  
TG: why u contactin me  
TG: i already said i aint falling for ur attempts  
TT: Would you believe me if I said I’m contacting you because I want to hear from you?  
TG: thats creepy af  
TT: In retrospect, that does sound unsettling.  
TT: I’m just going to barrel past that for the moment and get on with this trainwreck of a conversation.  
TT: Roxy Maryam, correct?  
TG: htf do u know my name?!  
TT: Jane told me.  
TG: omg janey whyyyyy

Now that you’re talking to her, you’re starting to have doubts. Not because Roxy herself seems different—probably the opposite of that, actually. It’s just that you can’t be fully certain that Roxy Maryam is your sister. You’re not sure if you’d be able to stand losing Roxy now that you’ve convinced yourself that you’ve got her back.

TG: srsly ur sendin some majorly creep vibes  
TG: so like explain urself  
TG: or leave  
TG: dats cool too  
TG: i aint judgin man is all im sayin  
TT: It’s probably fair to say that explaining myself would be immensely helpful to both of us at the moment.  
TG: hell yea  
TT: Before I do that, however, I need to ask you something.  
TG: wait no  
TG: this aint part of the deal  
TT: Do you know Kanaya Maryam?  
TG: wat  
TG: no  
TG: is this because we share the saem last name  
TG: its p common in prospit

You will yourself to not crumble into disheartened pieces in front of your phone. She sounds so similar to the Roxy you knew, and the circumstances are much too perfect. 

TT: This may sound like a strange question, but do you really share the same surname?  
TG: duh  
TG: roxy maryam  
TG: duh  
TT: Let me rephrase: I think you’re lying.  
TG: ouch  
TG: whatve i done to deserve this harsh accusatoin  
TG: *accusation  
TT: Exist, I suppose.  
TG: imma b honest this chat is kinda freaking me out  
TG: admire the conspiracy theorist stuff but im not really interested  
TG: i mean theres loads of other stuff i could be doing  
TG: by which i mean not talking to creepy strangers  
TT: Wait.  
TT: Shit, Roxy, I’m sorry.  
TT: Don’t leave.  
TT: Have you left?  
TG: for some reason no  
TT: Thank God.  
TT: I didn’t mean to sound creepy. I think the Condesce’s conversational skills must be rubbing off on me.  
TG: holy shit ur w/ fishbitch herself  
TT: No?  
TG: i knew it!  
TT: As cliché as this sounds, it’s not what you think.  
TG: u promised an explanation but here we are ten minutes later with no explanation whatsoever

Okay, deep breath, Strider. Write it down. Write it down, and click… 

TT: My name is Dirk Strider.  
TT: I think you might be my sister.

There’s a pause. And it’s, well. It’s kind of a long pause.

The pause just… drags on.

It’s actually too long for your comfort. You spend almost a full three minutes staring at the screen.

\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] is now an idle chum! --

That was informative.

You’re about to go text Jane to ask her to check on Roxy when your sister finally replies.

TG: holy shit  
TG: HOLY SHIT  
TG: dirk?  
TT: Yes?  
TG: fuck u  
TG: just  
TG: fuck u  
TT: I swear I’m telling the truth.  
TG: i know  
TG: i asked janey  
TG: still just fuck u  
TT: That would be incest.  
TG: no  
TG: i mean normally im all for them innundeos  
TG: but dont even go there  
TG: *innuendso  
TG: *innuendis  
TG: *arrggggkjqvkn  
TT: I’m sorry.  
TT: I may or may not have had too many conversation with the Condesce, most of which involve at least a few questionably age-appropriate jokes thrown in for maximum discomfort.  
TG: how?  
TG: kan told me that u were dead  
TG: she said everyone was dead  
TG: if ur alive what about the others?!  
TT: They’re dead.  
TT: I saw the evidence for both of them.  
TT: They’re definitely gone.  
TG: :(  
TT: Yeah. That pretty much sums it up.  
TT: How’re you and Kanaya doing?  
TG: were fine  
TG: ive been living with kan and her old mentor porrim for some time  
TG: kan works as a tailor now  
TT: That’s nice. I have to admit that I never really imagined her as anything other than a handmaid.  
TG: apparently she always wanted to b a seamstress but she fell in love w/ mom  
TT: Wait.  
TT: She fell in love with Mom?  
TG: yup  
TG: its cute af  
TG: as long as u ignore the whole death by fishbitch bit  
TT: Huh.  
TG: wut  
TT: Were her sentiments mutually returned?  
TT: Did they have an affair?  
TG: i wouldnt call it that but yea technically  
TG: did u not know about it  
TT: If you’re referring to our mother’s illicit romance with her handmaid, the answer is no.  
TG: oh cmon dirky  
TG: aint nothin illicit about it  
TG: at least not morally  
TG: she was miserable yknow  
TT: Our mother? In her marriage?  
TG: uh huh  
TG: she was liek super gay  
TG: *liek  
TG: goddamnit that was the exact same typo  
TG: *kiel  
TG: *like  
TG: finally :3  
TT: Gay? What does that mean?  
TG: omg  
TG: do u rlly not know  
TT: I really do not.  
TG: its like instead of wanting to kiss boys i wanna kiss girls  
TG: or like u wanting to kiss boys instead of girls  
TT: Does a romantic preference for a certain gender really warrant a label?  
TG: pffft  
TG: dirky ur crackin me up  
TT: I don’t intend to.  
TT: It just seems bizarre.  
TG: u grew up with trolls right  
TT: Correct.  
TG: damn ure practically one of them now  
TG: do u also do the romance foursquare thingy  
TT: If you’re referring to quadrants, then no.  
TT: I’m not exactly interested in pursuing a romantic relation of any kind right now. Frankly, I don’t have the time.  
TG: moar like u aint got the girls to do dat  
TG: i mean srsly how many girls ur age do u know  
TT: I know Jane.  
TG: shes not ur age tho  
TT: Two years is practically negligible.  
TG: eh sure  
TG: u like her then??  
TG: *wink wink*  
TT: In a platonic manner, yes.  
TG: u sure  
TG: ever stayed up at night thinking of those wide blue eyes  
TG: u sure u dont wanna plant a big juicy kiss on those gorgeous pink lips  
TG: grab her hand and run away together  
TG: have a family with five kids and a dog  
TT: I’m very certain I’ve never even considered any of those actions.  
TT: On the other hand, I’m not quite as sure about you, seeing the speed in which you managed to conjure those fine images from thin air.  
TG: nah  
TG: i prefer cats  
TG: anyhoo  
TG: aint no shame in it dirky  
TG: u can tell me anything  
TG: *wonk* ;)  
TT: If that was meant to be a display of sisterly support, Roxy, I must admit that that was terrifying. I am terrified.  
TG: thank u dirky that rlly made my day  
TT: You’re welcome.

*****

Now that you’ve finally made contact with Roxy and are now fully unveiled as Derse’s long-lost heir to all of your friends, you feel as if an immense weight has been removed from your chest. For the first time in years, you can finally breathe easy. 

Shortly after you reveal yourself to Roxy, she returns the favour to Jane and Jake. Jane is unsurprised, seeing as you’ve already told her, but Jake is positively beside himself with the knowledge that his three best friends are legitimate members of their respective kingdoms’ royal families. He doesn’t seem bitter about not technically being royal himself, but you wonder if it bothers him that he’s the only without some fancy formal title.

“Oh, no, he’s just as royal as any of us,” Jane tells you when you ask her about it. “Illegitimacy isn’t a disqualifier for the Prospitian throne. It sets him behind me, but not by much.” She purses her lips. “Don’t tell Jake, though.”

You don’t.

Jane turns thirteen in April. Roxy, Jake, and you spent days deciding how you’ll celebrate it, finally settling on sneaking her into the kitchen and giving her free reign over the oven. When you let her uncover her eyes, she actually squeals in delight and gives you a rib-crushing hug. “You guys are so silly,” she says, beaming. “Thank you so much.”

Jane bakes a cake. You try helping at first, but somehow end up dumping twice the amount of vanilla extract needed into the mixing bowl, causing you to be exiled to the corner of the kitchen. You don’t mind, and spend your time texting Jake and Roxy and giving them live updates on Jane’s progress. When the cake is finished, Jane insists on giving you half. You cut a few slices off for Aradia, Sollux, Equius, and Nepeta, then gorge yourself on the remainder. 

The two of you spend the rest of the day chatting with your friends on a public memo. Jake tells a story about the time he convinced a highwayman to unhand him in exchange for two leftover pecan tarts Jane had baked him as a goodbye gift (Jane turns bright red and mumbles for Jake to quit exaggerating, that she’s not _that_ good of a cook), and Roxy challenges all of you to a meme war. In the end it’s just you and her sending each other the most disturbing images you can find. Finally, after multiple scoldings from Jane, the two of you truce, then promptly attempt to backstab each other. This starts a long and dramatic saga of love lost and found between the four of you, ultimately ending with you, Roxy, and Jake being forced to draw mustaches and monocles on your faces as repentance for having disobeyed the orders of the birthday girl. Jane does it in leftover baking ingredients for you, giving you a fluffy whipped cream caterpillar over your top lip and a smeared dark chocolate hoop around your left eye. You have to take off your sunglasses for the picture, which is then sent to the memo as evidence of your compliance with Jane’s recommended punitive measures.

TG: holy shmokes dirk  
TG: lookin gud  
TT: As always, of course.  
GG: You should see him as he usually is, wearing those ridiculous sunglasses of his.  
TG: omg dirky  
TG: u still wear those??  
TT: Is there a problem with that?  
TG: hehe  
TG: and here i was thinking u were so grown up and mtaure  
TG: *mature  
GT: Wait what do you all mean by striders sunglasses?  
TG: when dirk was younger he was always wearing these rlly dorky triangle glasses  
TG: i think they were from some cartoon or smth  
TG: tl;dr dirk is a dork  
TG: ha get it  
TG: dIrk is a dOrk  
TT: I’m inconsolable, Roxy.  
TT: Never have I been burned harder.  
GG: He’s put his sunglasses back on again!  
\-- gutsyGumshoe [GG] sent a file: Dork_Strider.jpg --  
TG: doooork  
GG: As fun as this is, I still haven’t gotten photos from either you or Jake!  
GG: I’m not budging until I get photographic evidence that you’ve completed your assignments!  
TG: alright alright  
TG: wut say u to this  
\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] sent a file: rolalsthehottest.jpg --

You tap on the file and come up with a selfie of a grinning Roxy. Her hair is as blonde as ever, but it’s been cut short into a neat bob. You suspect Kanaya was behind that particular change. She’s wearing a casual pink sundress covered in tiny glittery feline paw prints. It matches her eyes, which are crinkled at the corners. She’s smiling in that typical Roxy way, her mouth stretching across her face, her teeth proudly on display. There’s a little black mustache drawn in what seems to be pen on her face. A messy ink monocle circles her eye.

Well. There’s your long-lost sister right in front of you.

You’ve missed her so goddamn much.

GG: Your dress is adorable!  
TG: aw thx janey-waney  
GT: You look like a right gentlewoman roxy!  
TG: rite u r mr english

It strikes you that Jake didn’t bother to compliment you on your appearance. That shouldn’t bother you, and it doesn’t. Not at all.

Goddamnit, Strider. Focus.

TT: I suspect Kanaya is to blame for the haircut?  
TG: who else  
TT: It’s nice.  
TG: awwwwwww  
TG: dirk u dont have to b so shy with ur compliments  
TG: yall know i love u  
GG: That’s very sweet, Roxy.  
TG: not as sweat as u  
TG: crap  
TG: *sweet  
GG: Jake?  
GT: Yes ms crocker! *hastily adds finishing touches to my masterpiece*  
\-- golgothasTerror [GT] sent a file: Detective_english_in_the_house.png --  
TG: omg  
TG: jake u adorbable nerd

Next to you, Jane lets out a giggle. You open up Jake’s file, and, holy shit.

Behind him, a table has been roped off with yellow police tape. A poorly-constructed crime scene’s been created in the background—a shattered plate, a red footprint that you think is meant to look bloody but instead just looks ketchupy, a kitchen knife slathered in similar red sauce. Jake himself is positioned half-facing the camera and half-facing the table, a shaky mustache and monocle drawn on his visage. He’s holding a magnifying glass up to his non-monocled eye, his face exaggeratedly pensive. You can almost see the “hmm” in a cartoon thought bubble floating above his head.

Normally, you’d tease the fuck out of him for this kind of painfully try-hard thing. Unfortunately, you’re distracted by another important detail:

Jake English is kind of unfairly cute.

He has dark hair, like Jane, but his skin is duskier, a tanned olive as opposed to Jane’s rosy peach. You’re not expecting the black-framed square glasses over his shadowed eyes (the photo quality is shitty, and you have no idea what colour his irises are, which doesn’t bother you at all)—you always figured that he had excellent vision based on everything’s he told you about his sharp adventuring skills—but they look good on him. Buck teeth poke out over his bottom teeth, making him look dorky, which shouldn’t be a compliment but in fact sort of is.

It occurs to you that this is the first time you’ve ever seen your “best bro,” as you’ve taken to calling him. Well. You decide that it’s a good thing that you like the way he looks. Bros should always have a solid appreciation for each others’ appearances, even if they consistently bash each other for that exact reason. It’s an underlying, unspoken sentiment shared among them that makes their bond stronger than normal friendship. As Jake’s bro, you can firmly mentally acknowledge that Jake English is a pretty good-looking guy. That’s expected. Besides, it’s not like you’re going to say anything about it to him. He’s not insecure; he doesn’t need shallow compliments to keep his ego up.

You briefly wonder if Jake also thought you were good-looking; however, you hurriedly banish that line of thinking because it feels needy as hell. You refuse to be needy.

GG: I have to admit, Jake, that that’s quite possibly the most “adorbable” thing, quoting Roxy, that I’ve ever seen.  
GT: Oh shush its not adorbable its a serious tribute to the genre of the crime thriller!  
TT: Nah, I think “adorabable” works fine as a descriptor.  
GT: You buggers dont have any good taste in cinema!  
TT: If by “cinema” you mean “cheap pieces of disposable trash,” then yes, none of us have any taste in it.  
TT: And thank God for that.  
GT: Codswallop!  
TG: its like the angrier he gets the further back in time he travels  
TT: An astute observation, one that I’ve made on multiple occasions.  
TT: I call it the English Theorem. It proposes that each text containing an insult towards either Jake himself or one of his great loves, be it movies or adventures or his grandmother, results in roughly a decade’s worth of backwards movement.  
GT: Striders off his kadoova!  
TT: As you can see now, the English Theorem is in full effect.  
GT: *Throws pistols in the air.*  
GG: Oh, come off it, boys. Let’s be mature.  
TG: yeah listen to tha bday girl  
TG: dooooorks  
GG: Roxy, my statement applies to you as well.  
TG: aw janey dont be a spoilsport  
GT: Im being perfectly mature its strider whos being unreasonable!  
TT: My theorem is perfectly accurate and you know it.  
GT: Shut it dirk! Stop this tomfoolery at once!  
TT: You can silence me but you’ll never silence the truth.  
GT: Arghhhhh!  
GG: Ahem.  
GG: What did I say earlier?  
TG: ohhhh janeys getting mad  
GG: I am not.  
TG: she totes is

Beside you, Jane lets out a quiet growl. Right. Probably now is a good time to sign out.

TT: Seeing as I’m the only one here with reason to fear being physically injured, I think it would be wise to leave as quickly as possible.  
\-- timaeusTestified [TT] ceased responding to memo: hell yass janeys bday surpirse --

“Oh, I’m not really mad,” says Jane. She pauses. “Well, I’m not that mad. I will be if you and Jake continue your foolishness.”

“It’s fine,” you say. “I need to track down my troll friends anyway. I got cake to deliver.”

*****

This is how your cake delivery service goes:

*

You find Nepeta and Equius in a guest bedroom surrounded by broken pencils and pastels. It appears that Nepeta’s trying to teach Equius how to draw a cat. 

“Long time no see, Dirk!” Nepeta purrs, then promptly pounces on you, causing you to nearly drop your baked goods. Equius merely grunts, then goes back to crushing art supplies.

“Jane baked a cake,” you tell them, handing them a slice each. Nepeta smiles widely at you and ruffles your hair. Equius frowns.

“Did Her Imperious Condescension give you her permission to use the kitchens?” he asks.

“Of course,” you lie.

*

As always, Sollux is in his room. You knock in the way that signals it’s you—two sharp raps followed by four slow ones and ending in a final two akin the the first couple. “Come in,” comes a muffled voice. You casually enter. 

“I thought you thaid you can’t come to the lethonth anymore,” Sollux says, not looking up from the computer he’s in the process of gutting.

“I can’t,” you say. “I just came to deliver some sweet fuckin’ cake Jane baked.”

Sollux turns to you, his expression skeptical. “Cake?”

“Hell yeah,” you say, kicking a few empty cans of energy drink away from the floor to clear some space for the plate you’re holding.

“Thit,” says Sollux. “I haven’t had this thtuff thince I left Prothpit.”

“Seems like Prospit’s a load better than here,” you comment. “Must’ve been a hella good reason to leave.”

Sollux sighs. “Aradia was the reathon.”

“Oh.” You guess that should’ve been obvious.

Sollux bends down to pick up the plate of cake. He eyes it warily, then grabs a handful and stuffs it in his mouth. “Fuck. Thith ith delithiouth.”

“I’ll be sure to tell Jane you said that,” you say. “It’ll probably make her day.”

You’re about to leave when Sollux calls your name. “DK.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not retarded, okay?”

“You’re telling me this because?”

“AA thinkth thee’th being tho thmart hiding whatever’th bothering her from me,” he says bitterly. “I know thomething’th wrong—I mean, thee’th acting completely off, for one thing—but thee ith refusing to tell me what the fuck’th wrong.”

You nod. You’ve noticed that Aradia’s been busier lately, that she’s dropped the “Imperious” part of the Condesce’s formal title, that she avoids the Condesce like the plague, leaving you to head to your daily training and breakfasts by yourself. 

“Knock thome thenthe into her,” Sollux tells you. “If I can’t do it, thomeone elthe hath to.”

“Yeah,” you assure him. “I’ll do that.”

*

You don’t see Aradia until the night. She knocks on the door twice, and slinks in when you open it, her typical padding step making next to no noise. 

“My prince,” she greets you.

“Aradia,” you return. “Jane baked a cake this morning. I saved a slice for you.” You fetch the plate you left on your dresser in the closet and hand it to her. She smiles.

“I haven’t eaten cake since I left Alternia,” Aradia says.

“How long ago was that?” you ask her.

Aradia tilts her head slightly. “Two sweeps, at least,” she says.

“How old are you anyway?”

“Almost eight.”

“Sixteen years old?”

“Around that.”

Sixteen. Aradia’s six years older than you. No wonder Jane seems relatively close to your age—two or three years is nothing compared to six. “Why did you leave?”

“That may be a tale best told when you’re older.”

“I’m plenty old already,” you insist. “Besides, I’ve been frequently told of my supposed maturity. Shouldn’t that still apply when it comes to potentially morbid stories?”

Aradia says nothing for a moment. “I suppose it would be nice to tell you,” says Aradia. “I do want you to know eventually. I always thought I’d tell you later, but I have to admit that I’m not entirely sure I’ll be able to.”

That doesn’t sound good. “You’re not doing anything shady, are you?”

Aradia shrugs. Well, that confirms Sollux’s theory. 

“Aradia,” you start.

“Everything is fine,” she assures you.

“It’s not if you’re not safe.”

“I would prefer to not discuss this.”

“Is it Equius?” You thought he’d stopped bothering Aradia a while ago, but it’s possible he’s still doing it in secret.

“No.”

“Is it Her Imperious Condescension?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

You shake your head. “Look, Aradia, I get that this shit isn’t something you want to chat about, but I’m actually concerned. Sollux is as well.”

Mentioning her moirail is a mistake. Aradia’s nose wrinkles in distaste. “Sollux means well,” she says, “but he doesn’t see the bigger picture.” The words sound familiar. You think she must have said them before.

“Aren’t you supposed to tell your moirail everything?” you ask.

A hesitation. “Yes,” answers Aradia.

“You aren’t.”

“I’m not.”

“Sollux is worried.”

“I am too. That is the reason I have not spoken to him.” For once, her unhappiness is clear on her face. The clearcut expression is so strange coming from her that you decide to drop the subject. You’ll talk discuss it later.

“You said you wanted to tell me a story?”

“I did. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, my relationship with Her Condescension is strained, to say the least. I haven’t done anything to her personally, but someone I was once very close to did. Have you heard of Damara Megido?” You shake your head. “I didn’t think so. Her Condescension doesn’t enjoy mentioning her name. Damara was my ancestor. Do you know what an ancestor is?”

“I asked Sollux, but he never answered.”

“Do you know about how trolls reproduce?”

You have a rough understanding of how it works. Trolls mix their own genetic material with that of their respective concupiscent partners in buckets, which are promptly picked up imperial drones and used to impregnate the Mother Grub. It’s incredibly complex and also not necessarily the most age-appropriate subject for a ten-year-old child to know about. Not that you’ve ever cared about keeping your reading material age-appropriate.

You recount your knowledge to Aradia, and she nods. “That’s essentially it. Usually, this should create genetically diverse trolls with no true ancestors or descendants. However, thometimes, if Her Condescension desires it, she’ll have a wriggler created with nearly identical genes to a grown troll. I am one of those. The troll I am nearly identical to was called Damara Megido. She was Her Condescension’s handmaid. Her Condescension hated her. Many speculated that they were in a particularly passionate kismessitude.

“When I was young, Her Condescension had me brought to the castle in an attempt to spite Damara. It failed when Damara took me under her wing as her ward. I lived in Alternia’s royal palace for the majority of my life, protected by my ancestor. Damara trained me constantly. She taught me how to serve, teaching me domestic chores such as sewing and cleaning and cooking, but, in secret, she taught me to fight. I was never particularly good at it, but Damara was unparalleled by all but Her Condescension herself.”

“The katana,” you realize.

Aradia nods. “It was hers. I kept it after she died. When I was four sweeps old, my ancestor attempted to assassinate her master. As you can imagine, the result was unpleasant, to the say the least.” 

“Afterwards, Her Condescension became increasingly paranoid. She began implementing harsher penalties for breaking the law and enforcing the hemospectrum more than anyone before her. Even after she had thoroughly crushed any opposition in her own kingdom, she grew fearful of the shining nations across the sea populated by creatures she did not understand. I’m not sure why she chose to attack Derse first. Perhaps she saw the sprawling city and the rampant crime and thought that it was exactly the sort of place she wanted to rule. Personally, I suspect it was because Derse has always had a reputation for being untrustworthy and duplicitous. Her Condescension cannot stand betrayal. After my ancestor’s treason, she withdrew from every troll, even her matesprit, Aranea Serket. Her reasoning was that nobody could betray her trust if there was no trust to betray. It makes sense for her to have wanted to take out the known snake, then.

“I still don’t understand why she decided to bring me with her when she took over Derse. I think it was meant to be a form of punishment, forcing her ex-kismesis’s descendant to be the handmaid of her pseudo-descendant. I don’t pretend to understand her. I don’t need to. I despise her.”

“If it pleases Your Condescension,” you repeat, remembering Aradia’s response to the Condesce’s mocking words.

“Damara’s words,” Aradia explains. “She never referred to her master by her full title. A sign of their hatred, I think. I assume the rest is meant to be an innuendo and a taunt in one. It drove Her Condescension wild.”

That’s not exactly an image you want in your head. You cast it away as hastily as possible. “Why did you say that?” you demand. “It seems reckless.” It seems suicidal, you mean, but you’re certain that Aradia gets that.

“It was,” Aradia admits. “I wasn’t thinking as clearly as I should have been. There are things in this world that I still care about, as empty as I may seem, and you are one of them. I could not stand Her Condescension’s mockery of you.”

That surprises you somewhat. Aradia always seems so blank, so void of feeling. You know that she cares about Sollux, and you know that she cares about you, but you’ve never wondered if she ever feels anything other than concern or fondness towards you. The idea that she could be furious over an insult directed at you and your relationship with her is absurd.

“As unwise as that decision may have been, I’ll admit that I’m touched,” you finally tell her, prompting the appearance of Aradia’s subtle slight smile.

“The morning should be arriving shortly,” Aradia says. She leans over and smooths back your hair. “I suggest you skip your nightly training just this once, my prince, and sleep soundly for once. It would do you good to get some rest; the skin underneath your eyes is bruised.”

“Might as well, I’m tired as fuck. It’s been kind of a long day.”

“Quite so,” Aradia agrees. She kisses your forehead and stands up.

“Your cake,” you remind her, handing her the plate.

“Ah,” says Aradia. “Yes. The cake.” She holds it somewhat uncertainly in front of her, as if unsure of the proper etiquette for handling it.

You snort softly. Aradia flashes you a quick smile in return. It’s gone as soon as it appears, a glimpse of sun on a cloudy day. You wonder what Aradia was like before coming to Derse. You wonder if that smile was once a common occurrence. You realize you can’t imagine a constantly-smiling Aradia. Actually, you can’t imagine any variation of a happy Aradia.

She approaches the door, and suddenly you want to grab her and hug her the way Jane hugged you. You want to communicate somehow that you care about her the same way she cares about you, that you want her to be happy, even if that’s an impossibility under the Condesce’s reign. Instead, you start to say, “Stay safe-”

“Please don’t,” says Aradia, halting abruptly near your doorway.

You don’t.

“Aradia-”

“My sweet prince,” Aradia simply says. You hear her padding footsteps echoing through the empty corridor as she leaves.

*****

Time is water slipping through your fingers, and days turn to weeks turn to months. You’re occupied at all times, juggling your daily training with the Condesce with your nightly independant training with your monitoring Jane and chatting with your friends. You learn how to handle a spear, a dagger, throwing knives, and a bow and arrow. The Condesce even allows you borrow one of her extra tridents to practice sparring with her. You and Roxy band together to pester Jake and Jane with increasingly disturbing phrases in binary. The full, deeply unsettling impact of your texts are probably lost on them, though, since neither can read binary. Sollux, on the other hand, actually pesters you to stop at once. You don’t bother asking him how he managed to see your activities in a private chat. You’ve always suspected he kept an eye on Pesterchum via his mad haxxor skills. 

Two months before your eleventh birthday, you wake up to your door being flung open. Instantly, you’re up, katana raised and mind racing. You’re seven again, helpless and scared, your mother grabbing your hand and muffling your breaths, the two of you furiously racing towards a traitorous bloody gash of sky promising freedom and offering death.

“Attabuoy, guppy,” the Condesce says. “Always prepared! Just like you should be. Happy wriggling day, and head on over to breakfast. I got your frond to bake you a cake.”

When you arrive at the dining room, freshly showered and dressed in a collared shirt and dark pants, the Condesce is casually talking with a distraught-looking Jane. Upon seeing you, the Condesce grins and shoves an entire cake at you. It’s been frosted with bright fuschia icing. On top are the words “Happy Wriggling Day, Dirk!” in what seems to be dark chocolate. You recognize it as Jane’s steady cursive handwriting. Next to it is a terrible stick person drawing of what is presumably you, featuring a few disconnected lines topped by a shaky circle surrounding two lopsided triangles you think are meant to represent your shades. The Condesce’s handiwork, probably.

“I wasn’t aware we were celebrating my wriggling day now,” you say, baffled.

The Condesce chuckles. “I forgot last sweep, so I figured I owed you a big one this time.” Which doesn’t explain anything at all.

“I’m honored, Your Imperious Condescension.”

“You’re cute when you’re polite, guppy. Eat up, now.”

You eat a quarter of the cake for breakfast under the Condesce’s watchful eye. Then, you give half to the Condesce and the remaining quarter to Jane, who sends you a frantic, pleading look. “If Your Imperious Condescension allows it, may I-”

“Tryna leave already? C’mon, I haven’t even given you the gifts!”

Gifts? You have a feeling that these gifts in question are less gifts and more compact torture devices meant to entertain the Condesce. “That’s really not necessary,” you tell the Condesce. “Staying alive is enough of a gift for me.”

The Condesce smiles cryptically. “I think my gifts are betta,” she says. She clears her throat and claps twice. The door opens and a servant—not Aradia—comes in with two boxes. She sets down both of them, and you see that they’ve been wrapped with sheets of gold.

“Well, water you waitin’ for?” the Condesce asks. “Open ‘em!”

You glance at Jane. She makes a subtle motion mimicking slitting her throat, followed by a slight shake of her head. You glance at the Condesce. She raises a single eyebrow at you.

Ah, fuck it.

You open the smaller box first and are pleasantly surprised to see a larger pair of your sunglasses. “I had a bigger pier made for you,” the Condesce explains. “Yours are gettin’ too small for your face.”

That’s actually surprisingly thoughtful. Still, you feel somewhat uncomfortable with the idea that the Condesce is replacing something so vital to your brand, something originally gifted to you by your father. “Thank you,” you say hesitantly. 

“There’s still another left,” the Condesce points out.

You unwrap and open up the second box to find a long-limbed puppet splayed out at the bottom. A backwards-facing baseball cap sits atop its head, which dangles limply from its soft fabric body. The puppet is wearing a black t-shirt emblazoned with the words “CAL”, orange-striped arms and legs protruding outwards, a tiny pumpkin-coloured collar and a equally-small black bowtie peeking out above the tee. Wide blue eyes stare at you unblinkingly from the puppet’s red-cheeked face, carmine lips pulled into a disturbingly wide smile displaying two white wooden strips likely meant to mimic dentition, interrupted by one individual golden tooth.

You reach into the box and pull it out. Jane hisses and backs away and the servant actually falls over before scrambling back. The Condesce merely grins at you. You give the puppet a final once-over. Yeah. Yeah, it really is him.

Holy shit, the Condesce found Lil Cal.

“You found Lil Cal,” you state.

“Yep,” she says smugly.

You haven’t seen the puppet in years. It used to be your favourite toy, gifted to you at your birth by one of Karkat’s close friends (“My fucking idiot of an ex-moirail,” Karkat had once explained to you, “thought giving a newborn human wriggler a demonic juju would be a good fucking idea.”), until your father had decided one day that it was probably possessed and had it sent back to Karkat’s friend in Prospit, along with a detailed drawing of a raised middle finger. You’d caught him trying to sneak out to the post office and had refused to speak to him for the next two weeks.

You give the puppet a firm fist bump. It is exactly as you remember it.

“Thank you,” you say, and you really do mean it this time.

“Anyfin for my guppy,” the Condesce says, ruining your meticulously-styled hair with a well-manicured hand. You’re too happy to care.

*****

“You need to burn that thing immediately,” Jane tells you the moment the two of you are alone in her room. 

“Fuck no,” you say. “He’s a childhood souvenir. I’m keeping him forever.”

“I can sense something bad emanating from that puppet,” Jane insists. “Everyone can, Dirk.”

“Cal seems fine to me.”

“It’s evil. I have no idea why you can’t feel it, but I know for sure that it’s evil. It’s like there’s an aura or something around it.”

You cast a critical eye at Cal. He grins back at you in his typical friendly manner. “I haven’t noticed any evidence of the Condesce tampering with it.”

“It’s not the Condesce,” says Jane. “It’s the puppet itself that’s malicious.”

“Dude, I’ve had Cal for years. He’s completely harmless.”

“Why haven’t you seen it in so long, then?”

“My dad hated him and mailed him to his original owner in Prospit.”

“Your father must have felt it as well.”

You wave at her dismissively. “My father thought apple juice was the best fruit-flavoured beverage. His judgement is clearly flawed in several crucial areas.”

Jane looks exasperated. “That’s not relevant.”

“It very much is,” you tell her.

Jane furrows her brows. “I’m telling Aradia,” she finally decides.

“Oh, fuck no.”

*****

“We must bury this at once,” Aradia declares, gingerly holding Lil Cal by his left ankle. 

“Wait,” you say, “I swear he’s not dangerous. I’ve had him since I was born, he was my goddamn favourite thing in the world for years. He’s done literally nothing except occasionally teleport to random locations near me.”

“It’s a juju,” Aradia says.

You try to think back to what a juju is. It’s an incredibly complex item governed by various laws of paradox space that even you can’t decipher in the slightest, a single entity existing in multiple realities, unable to be replicated or permanently destroyed. An object that is and always will be.

“I don’t see how that warrants immediate interment,” you say.

Aradia looks at you as if she has just realized she was talking to a ten-year-old child instead of a wizened professor of philosophy. “It’s a _juju_ ,” she repeats, placing emphasis on the last word.

“I get that,” you say.

“Do you,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“Jegus Christ, Aradia. Let’s skip the whole beating around the bush like a bunch of spasming purplebloods overdosing on sopor in the royal gardens and talk about exactly why you want to destroy the only thing left from the non-shitty part of my life.”

Aradia sighs softly. “Jujus are bad omens, to say the least,” she explains. “Every juju has an owner. You can only take a juju after the owner has willingly given it away or has been killed. Then, the juju becomes yours. I don’t know who this juju belongs to, and I’m not eager to find out. That is not even mentioning the increased probability of dooming ourselves should we interact wrongly with the juju. It creates an unknown variable that could be potentially dangerous. The best thing for us would be to hide it away so that it can’t affect us for the moment being.”

You open your mouth to argue, but Aradia cuts you off. “I am beseeching you, my prince. For the safety of everyone in this palace, I am begging you to bury this juju. Please. You must trust me. I promise you that this is the best course of action.”

You trust Aradia with all your heart and soul. You’re fully aware that she knows more than you, that she has experience that you lack, that she can supposedly see the “bigger picture” that you and Sollux have missed. You love Lil Cal, and you miss your mother and your father and Karkat, and you have to admit that you’re scared that one day you’ll miss them less, scared that the mist of years gone by will blur them from view until you can barely remember their faces no matter how many times you look at your saved family photo, scared that your past will be replaced by the nasal laughter and flashing bangles of the Condesce. 

_That’s what she’s trying to do,_ you abruptly realize. She’s letting you carry your past into your future, but, in doing so, she’s deliberately tainting it. She’s inextricably linked them with herself, presenting them—your parents and your safety and freedom—as gifts from her to you. They resemble your past closely enough for you to desire them, but they are, in their essence, an extension of her attempt at controlling you, at reigning you in with your own impossible fantasies for home.

_Home is gone._ It suddenly hits you. _Home is gone._

_Home is gone because home is dead._

__

__

_Home is dead, and the dead need funerals._

“I need a shovel,” you tell Aradia.

*****

The October night is bitingly cold, and your fingers are numb as you lay Lil Cal to sleep in the dirt. You cross his hands over his chest and smooth down his tiny pumpkin-coloured collar. You straighten his bowtie. 

You refuse to cry when you begin piling dirt onto the lifeless puppet. The first shovelful of soil covers his legs. The second and third tumble unceremoniously over his arms. He’s fully pinned down now, a prisoner in a dark, damp cell. You scoop a fourth shovelful of dirt over his torso, obscuring his name on his t-shirt. The fifth covers his neck and his fucking adorable collar and bowtie.

Empty blue eyes gaze up at the sky, glossy and unbelieving. There is nothing pleading about his expression, but you can almost imagine him begging. _Just let me see the sky,_ he implores. _Don’t leave me in the darkness._

You refuse to cry when the sixth shovelful of dirt sloughs off his face, filling his mouth with black. Instead, you shovel more over his head. Only his eyes remain uncovered. You fix that with your eighth shovelful. You smooth the churned earth with a frozen hand, then finish the job with one last scoop of soil.

A total of nine shovelfuls of dirt separate you from your puppet. A total of three years separate you from your home. You wonder how you will feel when nine full years have elapsed.

Aradia gently leads you back inside, and you refuse to cry.

You refuse to cry, and, surprisingly enough, you don’t. Your heart is as numb as your hands.

Aradia leads you inside, and, although your hands warm up, your heart refuses to unfreeze in your chest. She kisses you on your forehead and bids you goodnight.

“I’m so fucking tired of caring,” you tell Aradia hollowly. She stops.

“If I may, my prince,” she says to you, “I would suggest that one grows more tired of not caring.”

“How would you know?” you ask. Despite her exterior, you’ve always thought of Aradia as deeply caring.

Aradia smiles dryly. “I’ve known both feelings intimately,” she says. “At the very least, my prince, pain reminds us that we’re alive.”

You cut your shoulder while training that night. The pain fails to reach you. You stay up until morning, waiting for that triumphant moment of catharsis, that release of hurt and sorrow that leads to, if not healing, at least some form of closure. It’s when light begins to filter in through your curtains, dusting your room with patches of pale grey, that you finally put down your sword and leave your room to shower.

You’re never going back home. You’ve known that for years now, but you think this is the first time you’ve accepted it.

You don’t feel any less unhappy than before, though.

*****

You arrive to breakfast noticeably tired and irritable. The Condesce is mysteriously absent. Puzzled, you scan the room until you notice that a single note has been left on the dining table. 

Front of palace. Now.  
Stay safe, Aradia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the part where I point at the "minor character death" tag.
> 
> (Not entirely sure if this is considered minor or major, though. If you guys feel like I should add a new warning to the fic, please tell me.)
> 
> I'm sorry for the long-ish wait. The chapters do get a bit longer from here on out, so it might take me longer to write, edit, and format them. Rest assured that the next chapter should be up in around two weeks.
> 
> Oh, and Happy Early Thanksgiving if you're from the U.S.! (I'm not, but I'm sure y'all are having fun with that.)


	7. Tired of Hurting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rescue attempt, a speech, the feeling of helplessness, grief, an alarming episode, a reconciliation, and a long-lost friend of sorts.
> 
> (TW in notes.)

The first thing you do is text Sollux.

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering twinArmageddons [TA]  
TT: In front of the palace. Now.  
TT: It’s Aradia.  
timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering twinArmageddons [TA]

Then, you run.

*****

You’re almost at the palace doors when you hear someone shouting your name. 

“Prince Strider!” Equius is calling, sprinting towards you. “Prince Strider, please, wait!”

You turn to him. “What?” you snap, because you don’t have time, Aradia’s in danger, you need to… To find her, to save her? Fuck, you have no idea what to do. Fuck. Fuck!

Equius shoves a bundle of dark fabric at you. It’s damp from being clutched in his sweaty palms. “Hide your face,” he says. “There’s a crowd gathered outside. Should they know of your survival, Her Imperious Condescension is likely to kill them all.”

You shake out the fabric to reveal a dark robe with a long hood. You hastily put it on over your clothes, thanking Equius, then continue your sprint outside. How did Equius know about Aradia? Why did he decide to help you? You wonder if he’s doing this on the order of the Condesce.

The moment the castle doors are open, you are struck by how bright it is outside. You rarely leave the palace, especially during the day. Your eyes sting like hell as they’re assaulted by bright sunbeams, the white glare on your shades momentarily obscuring your vision.

The second thing you notice is the noise. It’s loud, painfully loud. Years of isolation in a highly exclusive royal palace have caused you to nearly forget the volume of the public. You can’t think over the chatter and cheers surrounding you. Your chest hurts. You’re out of breath.

The crowd is a stormy ocean around you, liquidlike in the fast-paced displacement of its troll constituents. People bump into you and shove you aside. You are lost, and you can’t see over the heads of those around you. You gasp for air. Holy shit. Holy shit, you’re drowning in people. 

Then, silence falls as swiftly as a gunshot. Everyone is still. You stand on your toes and crane your neck to see a clearing. Mumbling apologies under your breath, you duck and weave through the crowd, swimming through the frozen bodies. You surface near the clearing, and you finally make out what everyone has gathered to see.

A thick wooden frame stands in the lawn in front of the palace. Next to it is a nervous-looking violetblood dressed in what you recognize as tradition legislacerator costume. She’s compulsively flipping through a stack of notes, hands trembling. Several paces away is a blue-blooded troll closely resembling Equius, the arrow notched in his bow pointing directly at the frame. 

Your blood turns to ice. Instantly, you know what’s happening.

The reason for the sudden silence is apparent as the Condesce, dressed like a sleek fuchsia shark let loose in a pot of molten gold, makes her way towards the clearing. The crowd parts for her, and, in a way, it is almost majestic.

Boos and hisses sound out. You’re confused, at first. Then, as the Condesce approaches, you notice the troll behind her.

Aradia.

Her face is bloodied, rust streaked across her cheek and chin, a nasty-looking cut running along her forehead and ending at her right eye. Her dark curls are loose and wild, her simple servant’s uniform tattered. Her hands are tied behind her, her wrists raw and bleeding. She walks forwards confidently, her chin raised, her face set into a determined expression. Beside her are two guards. They’re both carrying weapons.

Step by step, they approach, the Condesce a brilliant sun in front, Aradia a dark, shadowy moon. You realize that Aradia’s typical padding step has been replaced by a bold and deliberate march. Gone is the trepidation and prudence that characterized the rustblood. Instead, she is unafraid and self-assured, her previous emptiness filled by a burning purpose.

Aradia allows herself to be tied to the wooden frame, her arms and legs bound tightly by thick rope, leaving her chest very much vulnerable to the arrow pointed directly at her heart.

Having secured the prisoner, the two guards stand beside the frame, faces stern. The legislacerator clears her throat nervously, glancing at the Condesce uncertainly.

“Go on,” says the Condesce.

The legislacerator bows. “We gather here today to witness the execution of Aradia Megido, former servant under Her Imperious Condescension,” she says. Her voice is firm despite her blatant nervousness. It reminds you of Jane, the first time you saw her, the way her fear seemed to give way to confident chilliness the moment she started speaking.

“Megido is charged with multiple counts of aggravating Her Imperious Condescension, one count of attempted murder-” an audible murmuring in the audience “-and one count of treason.” A sudden silence rings out upon the utterance of the last horrific, unspeakable word.

With a sickening lurch, you realize that Aradia must have attempted to kill the Condesce. She tried to kill the Condesce right after wishing you goodnight. She tried to… Holy fuck. Aradia’s admitted that she’s not a fighter. Why the fuck would she choose?-

“For this, she will receive the traditional penalty—death.”

No one dares breathe as the legislacerator ends her speech.

“Her Imperious Condescension will once more put down a traitor. All hail Her Imperious Condescension!” 

The crowd bursts into cheers. The Condesce grins, then claps once. All noise is instantly vacuumed away.

“Last words?” she asks Aradia. Aradia opens her mouth to speak, but she’s cut off.

“Aradia!” For a panicked second, you think the scream comes from yourself, and you almost clap your hands over your mouth. Then, a flash of red and blue startles you.

Racing towards the Condesce and Aradia is Sollux. His glasses are gone, revealing his red-and-blue eyes. They’re crackling with an intense energy, streaks of similarly-tinted light seeming to occasionally burst from his eyes. _Psiionics_ , you realize. Right. Sollux is a fucking psiionic. You almost forget that, sometimes.

Aradia turns her head to face her moirail. Her fearless expression falters for a second before promptly flickering back into place. “Sollux,” she says, voice calm.

“What the fuck have you done?” Sollux demands. Aradia merely smiles. Sollux turns to the Condesce, his eyes flashing. “Let her go!”

“Oh my, water we have here?” the Condesce drawls. “Is it treason I hear? There’s always room for one more, Captor.”

Sollux opens his mouth to shout something back, but Aradia shakes her head almost imperceptibly. “Sollux,” she says, “I know what I’m doing.”

“Like fuck you do,” Sollux snarls. He stalks forwards.

“Stay where you are!” one of Aradia’s guards demands. He points his gun threateningly at Sollux. He doesn’t last a second against the enraged goldblood—a crackle of red-and-blue lightning, the sound of thunder, and the guard’s being violently thrown back and pinned against the ground. The second guard meets a similar fate, her head skidding along the ground and her body jerking frenziedly before she goes limp.

Sollux grabs Aradia’s shoulder and tugs it. “Aradia.”

Aradia doesn’t budge. “Sollux.”

“We need to go, AA.”

“You need to go, Sollux.”

“Hooked as I am by this lovely display of moirallegiance, I gotta show to run,” says the Condesce.

“I don’t give a shit,” Sollux growls, moving to untie Aradia’s hands.

The Condesce tsks. “One disrespectful little minnow here,” she says. “You’re lucky I like you, Captor. Water you plannin’ on doin’ anyway? Ain’t anywhere to go, ain’t nofin to do. You got no chance.”

“Shut up, bitch,” says Sollux, and a the crowd gasps. The troll next to you grabs your shoulder to steady herself. You push her hand off.

The Condesce is right. You know this, as does Sollux. There’s absolutely nothing he can do to save Aradia. Even if he manages to escape the Condesce and the crowd, he’ll be stuck in a hostile kingdom with guards on his tail. To any average viewer, Sollux seems irrational compared to the composed countenance of Her Imperious Condescension.

You aren’t an average viewer. You also know that Sollux can’t accept that conclusion, that he cannot allow himself to stand by and let Aradia die. You yourself are itching to run into the fray and drag Aradia away, to grab her and hide her where the Condesce can’t reach her. That’s impossible, though. There is nowhere that the Condesce can’t reach. You learned that years ago.

Sollux continues to struggle with his moirail’s ropes, screaming useless insults at the Condesce, who replies coolly. Aradia is still. Her eyes are scanning the crowd, you realize. They land on you for an instant, and, despite your disguise and Aradia’s expressionless face, you know that she recognizes you. You know she recognizes you, and you know what she wants you to do.

_“Sollux doesn’t see the bigger picture.”_ How many times has she said that to you? Twice, you think. _“What is the bigger picture?”_ you want to scream at her. _“Is this it? Are you going to die for the bigger picture? What kind of bigger picture could possibly be worth so much?”_ Except, of course, that you understand. 

Death is powerful. Aradia must understand that intimately, having witnessed her own ancestor die at the hands of the Condesce and having been motivated by that very death for so long. She understands it when she sees you yearning for your dead past and Jane wishing to avenge her dead father. Aradia understands that, in her current position, the most impactful thing she can do is die in the most public, deliberately treasonous way possible. 

_It’s funny,_ you think. It’s only when you’re dead that people start listening.

You walk forwards. The crowd parts for you, clearly baffled. Inhaling deeply, you make eye contact with Aradia.

“Fuck you and your tyrannical rule, you inthane-” Sollux is saying right as you bash him in the head with your katana. He freezes, stumbles, then crumples like crushed aluminum foil. You watch as if observing from a great distance. There’s an audible murmur that circulates through the audience.

The Condesce is still smiling. “Thank Cod that’s done with,” she announces cheerfully. You can tell that she recognizes you too from the amused glint in her eye. “Now, let’s get on with tha porpoise of this whole shabang.” She gestures at the executioner, who steadies his bow, eyes concentrating on his target. You noticed there’s a new addition beside him. Equius. He’s the executioner’s apprentice, you remember. Ah. That’s how he knew. 

“Last words, Megido?” the Condesce asks Aradia.

Aradia looks forwards stonily. You can see the gears turning in her head. Address you and Sollux, address the Condesce, or address the uncaring people? She must have spent hours deciding on her last words. You know she’s already made her decision. She just needs to convince herself that she should carry on with it. She needs to convince herself that her bigger picture is worth abandoning her personal desires for, that it’s worth kicking her moirail to the curb.

You see the moment she regains her confidence. Her blank eyes narrow, seeming to come alive with fury. She looks directly at her audience, not sparing a single glance towards you or Sollux.

“We shall all die if it pleases Her Condescension,” Aradia announces, “for we exist in a tyranny, stripped of all personal rights and liberties. If my death today is a step forwards to one less death in the future, it shall be worth it. I speak freely now, for I am already doomed to die. If you care for the safety of you and your loved ones, do not bow down to Her Condescension’s oppressive regime. The Condesce may seem powerful, but she is nothing without her people. You, the people, are the true weapons. I pray that you use your power wisely.”

The statement is carefully planned out. It addresses the crowd and not the Condesce. It doesn’t delve into personal affairs that could discredit Aradia’s statement. It frames Aradia’s assassination attempt as the bold call to action from an individual member of the working class, one who understands the daily struggle of living in Derse, one who knows the Condesce well and is tired of being afraid. It is meant to give hope and courage to the people, to tell them that what is right now does not always have to be. It is, in short, much too perfect for a few hours of deliberation.

Just how long has Aradia been planning this?

“That all, Megido?” the Condesce asks. “Or d’you wanna read us the whole essay?” She’s still smiling, but you notice that her eyes have gone steely.

“I will never run out of words to say,” Aradia says, “for I have deprived of them my whole life. I will never run out of words to say, for we, the people, have been deprived of our very own voices our whole lives. I will never run out of words to say, but I have run out of time, and I hope the same will not have to ever happen to anyone else. There is very little sadder than having too many words and too little time.”

The Condesce waves a dismissive hand at Aradia. “Do it,” she orders. The executioner makes one last adjustment to his aim, then shoots.

*****

Rust drips from the arrow embedded in Aradia’s chest.

The goldblood on the ground moans softly. _Gold never rusts,_ you think hazily.

The Condesce’s bangles blaze gold in the sunlight. _Gold never rusts._

Rust drips onto the thirsty frozen earth, and your eyes travel upwards to land upon Aradia’s limp form. 

You think she might be dead.

*****

It’s funny: you don’t even remember walking back to the palace. You just remember tucking yourself into bed and thinking that you’ll sleep just an hour more. Aradia will wake you up when morning comes.

*****

You refuse to leave your bed. Jane checks on you after hearing about what happened, and you pretend to be asleep. When night comes, you decide training isn’t worth the effort. You sleep through the majority of the morning and receive a fuschia envelope from a servant who is very obviously and heart-wrenchingly not Aradia. You leave it on your dresser and go back to bed. Jane visits again, and you pull the blankets over yourself and mime snoring.

The thing that finally motivates you to leave your room is the hunger. Two days into your self-imposed quarantine, the agony of your empty stomach pushes you to head to the kitchen. You’re a silent shadow of a boy, gliding in and out of the kitchen like some sort of half-forgotten spectre. You’re about to head back to your room when you remember the expression on the Sollux’s face when he had awoken to find his moirail dead.

You grab some bread, fill a bowl with soup and head deeper into the palace.

You knock on the door the way you’re supposed to: two sharp knocks, two slow, two sharp again. Nobody responds.

You repeat your motions.

“Fuck off, Thtrider,” comes the muffled response. Sollux’s voice is thick and hoarse.

You make sure to leave the food behind before you follow his directive.

*****

“I’m sorry,” Nepeta whispers to you as you pass by. You’re walking back from your useless attempt at apologizing to Sollux.

“For what?” you ask monotonously despite knowing full well what she’s referring to.

“I miss her too,” she says, and you realize you never checked to see if Nepeta and Aradia were friends as well. You let her hug you. She cries a little but quickly wipes her tears away.

You haven’t cried yet. You don’t think you will. Aradia may have told you that feeling pain reminded you that you were alive, but you don’t think you have to take the advice of a troll who essentially threw herself at death right after saying that.

You’re tired of hurting. You’d rather sleep.

*****

tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT]  
TG: dirky  
TG: :(  
TG: i heard about what happened  
TG: u ok  
TG: nvm that was a dmub question  
TG: just  
TG: im here if you need me ok  
TG: rolals here for you always  
TG: luv ya bro  
TG: <3  
tipsyGnostalgic [TG] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT]

golgothasTerror [GT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT]  
GT: Dirk chum jane told me that you werent feeling the greatest.  
GT: Er that was a bit of an understatement i think.  
GT: Its fine if you dont want to respond.  
GT: I wanted to check if you were alright.  
GT: Although i guess the answer to that is rather obvious isnt it.  
GT: Oh dear.  
GT: I guess i just wanted to say that i…  
GT: I miss you dirk.  
GT: Even if youre not feeling alright i just wanted to say that i’m grateful that youre unharmed.  
GT: I wouldnt be able to stand knowing that youd been hurt.  
GT: *Gives you a massive hug.*  
GT: I dont know how to make things ok again. I dont think i could even if i tried.  
GT: I just wish i could hug you in real life.  
golgothasTerror [GT] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT]

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering twinArmageddons [TA]  
TT: I’m really fucking sorry.  
TT: I’m sorry, Sollux.  
TT: I’m so fucking sorry.  
\-- twinArmageddons [TA] blocked timaeusTestified [TT] \--

*****

Five days after the execution, it strikes you that Aradia is dead.

You are well aware that Aradia is technically dead. Her heart is still, her skin pallid, her lips cold. You know that her body is in the process of decomposition, her cells beings eaten by other organic creatures. Or, if she’s been cremated, all that’s left of her is ashes in the wind. The ashes are also decomposing. All organic matter eventually decomposes. Decomposition is an inevitability. Death is also an inevitability.

It’s not until five days in when you realize that you’re curled under the covers of your bed, ears perked, waiting for the soft padding footsteps signalling Aradia’s arrival. Which is stupid, of course, because those footsteps will never arrive. They will never arrive because Aradia will never arrive. Aradia will never arrive because Aradia is dead.

You realize that because Aradia is dead she will never arrive and you will never hear her padding footsteps again.

You spend the rest of the day blinking away tears, because you really fucking miss the sound of those footsteps.

*****

golgothasTerror [GT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT}  
GT: Good morning strider!  
GT: Its absolutely lovely outside right now and i wanted to send you a photo.  
\-- golgothasTerror [GT] has sent a file: A_fine_day_for_adventure!.jpg --  
GT: I havent heard from you in awhile. Why i believe its been a full week already!  
GT: Thats fine though. Proper gentlemen respect each others mourning periods.  
GT: Oh golly im sorry i shouldnt have said that.  
GT: By jove i really am a fuck up sometimes arent i?  
GT: Argh english get it together!  
GT: Jane and roxy may have told me not to mention the er incident. *sweats nervously*  
GT: I do hope youre not sore with me for that particular mishap.  
GT: Im just a bit concerned about you.  
GT: Jane says you arent in the best of states and i just wanted to check on you.  
GT: Anyhow i guess you wont be talking to me after my mistake.  
GT: I have a great story about what happened last night in prospit!  
GT: Perhaps i should save it for tomorrow though. I wouldnt want to be insensitive and blunder onwards without feeling suitably bad about my earlier reference to the incident.  
GT: Ill pester you later then!  
golgothasTerror [GT] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT]

*****

“When did you last shower?” Jane demands. She’s just stormed into your room and flung open the curtains to let in the light of the afternoon. You shrug absently, still curled up in bed.

“Dirk,” Jane says, exasperated. “When did you last shower?”

“Dunno,” you say.

Jane bites her lip. Her forehead is wrinkled. “You love showering, Dirk.”

Do you? You answer by grunting ambiguously.

“Have you showered at all since she-?”

You close your eyes. “Does it matter, Jane?”

“You look and smell disgusting,” Jane states.

“Anything new?” you ask her.

“You need to get up.”

“I don’t need to do anything.”

“If you don’t get up, the Condesce will be angry.”

“The Condesce is already angry that I’ve been skipping training and breakfast for the past week.”

“I- Agh!” Jane tugs at her hair. You’ve upset her. You get the feeling that you’ve upset her a lot recently. “I don’t know what to do,” she finally says. “I don’t know how to help you.”

“That makes two of us,” you say.

In the end, Jane forces you into the bathroom and barricades the door until you sit in the shower with the water on for twenty minutes. “That’s not nearly long enough for a normal Strider shower,” she frets when you exit.

You hug her wordlessly and head back to your room. You still feel like crap, but at least you no longer smell like it.

*****

golgothasTerror [GT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT}  
GT: Beautiful day weve been having eh?  
GT: Not that youd know i guess being in derse.  
GT: Do you like rain strider?  
GT: Everyone i know seems to despise it for some reason. Except for gramma of course.  
GT: Personally i love the rain. Sure its cold and sometimes being caught outside in it is rather miserable but i love the way it sounds drumming against the roof of a tent or the leaves on a tree.  
GT: Its like the sky is alive.  
GT: Sometimes when im feeling sad i like to fancy that the sky is raining just for me.  
GT: Maybe its a bit of an odd thing to think and perhaps it could come across as terribly self important of me but i find that it helps.  
GT: Its like no matter what the sky understands how you feel.  
GT: They sky understands and cares and cries so that you know it understands and cares.  
GT: Have you ever tried it?  
GT: Thats what im imagining now. You sitting alone in your room lit only by the dim morning sun streaming in through the rain streaked window.  
GT: If I were there i think id sit next to you. Id put an arm around your shoulders. Id lean against you and tell you that even if youre sad im glad to be with you.  
GT: Youre my best bro dirk. I hope you know that.  
GT: Ill pester you tomorrow. I think i just want to watch the rain right now.  
golgothasTerror [GT] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT]

*****

  
Three weeks after Aradia’s execution, you’re in bed, reading through Jake’s latest slew of texts to you. He’s taken to pestering you for a few minutes every day. You’re not sure why he does it. You’re not even sure if he knows why he does it. Nonetheless, you’re grateful. As clumsy and tactless as Jake can be, it’s nice reading his amusing anecdotes and enthusiastic old-timey exclamations. His most recent messages, on the other hand, are significantly more confusing.

 _“If I were there, I’d sit next to you,”_ Jake wrote. _“I’d put an arm around your shoulders. I’d lean against you and tell you that, even if you’re sad, I’m glad to be with you.”_

The idea of Jake next to you, of Jake holding you, of Jake glad to be your friend… You think it’s the sort of thing that would have delighted you before. Now, all you can do is read through them blankly, your stomach flip-flopping bizarrely on occasion, your mind comfortably empty.

You hear the sound of a throat being cleared outside your door. Equius. You know he’s been standing outside awkwardly for a few minutes now, debating on whether or not knocking on your door will result in permanent damage. “Her Imperious Condescension wishes for you to attend your weapons training,” Equius finally tells you, his voice muffled.

You open the door. You’re wearing the tank top and pants Aradia gave you. Recently, you’ve taken to wearing them constantly. “I was aware,” you tell him flatly.

Equius shuffles his feet awkwardly, sweat pooling down his face. “Ah,” he says, “I see.”

He comes back later, in the afternoon. “Her Imperious Condescension insists that you attend your weapons training,” he says.

You sigh. “Tell her I’ll be there,” you say. You don’t have the energy to argue with anyone anymore.

*****

golgothasTerror [GT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT]  
GT: Afternoon chum!  
GT: Roxy told me this morning that my many attempts at reaching you may seem terribly rude.  
GT: She said that its only polite for me to wait for you to talk to me instead of butting into you personal space like some sort of bull rampaging in a china store.  
GT: Im awfully sorry if thats the case. I didnt mean it i swear.  
GT: I suppose i should stop bothering you now but to be honest im not sure i want to.  
GT: I bet that makes me sound like a real scoundrel, and perhaps that comparison is well deserve. I dont know. I just wish you would respond for once.  
GT: Not that i mind of course! Take your time dirk.  
GT: I think maybe this might be the last time youll recieve unsolicited messages from me. Ill be a perfectly upright gent and use roxy as my role model.  
GT: I hope youre feeling a little better now. Pester me when you want to alright pal?  
GT: Goodbye for now!  
golgothasTerror [GT] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT]

*****

Bit by bit, life returns to its normal pace. At first, you leave your room only to head to practice. Breakfast with the Condesce is particularly painful, mostly because you can’t help but remember the way she smiled as Aradia bled out. It’s a bit difficult to go back to debating the merits of Alternian slam poetry artists after that experience.

With Jane’s insistence, you go back to showering after your lessons. A month passes by, and you start visiting Jane’s room just like you used to. The two of you don’t really talk much, and you usually bring a book along, but it’s nice, you think, to sit in companionable silence, knowing that someone else in the room cares about you.

You finally respond to Roxy and Jake, much to their relief. You keep the conversations brief at first, then make them longer and longer until you, Jane, Roxy, and Jake are back to messing around on your private memos. You didn’t realize how much you missed them until you finally let them back in.

*****

November passes. You check on Sollux a couple more times, but he refuses to speak to you. You keep leaving him food, and you think he eats it, because you find empty plates and cutlery at the entrance of his door. Eventually, you give up on trying to talk to him and simply bring him more food every day.

“I’m worried about him,” you admit to Jane. “I can’t contact him at all.”

“That won’t do,” Jane tells you sternly. “You’ve got to talk to him somehow.”

“He won’t open the door,” you say. “He won’t respond to me on Pesterchum. I tried shouting at the door, but he retaliated by blasting shitty dubstep to drown me out.”

Jane thinks for a moment for brightening. “A letter,” she says. “Write him a letter.”

“And if he doesn’t read it?”

“Keep writing him letters,” says Jane. “He’ll have to read one at some point.”

You can’t argue with that impeccable line of logic.

*****

Sollux,

I’ll start this letter with the most important part: the apology. I’m sorry. I’m genuinely, sincerely, extremely fucking sorry. I know I overstepped my boundaries. I’m not going to explain myself. I’m sure you know the reason I did it anyway. What I did isn’t exactly something to be rationalized or justified away, at any rate.

Regardless of what I did, though, i wanted to say sorry about Aradia. About your moirail. I’m sorry. I truly am. I’ve known her for only three years and I miss her like hell. I can’t imagine how you feel. For that, for the fact that Aradia is gone, I’m sorry.

I doubt there’s anything I can say to make it hurt less. I’m not even going to try to do anything to fill the gap she left behind. That would be useless and insulting. Just know that I’m worried about you. I haven’t heard from you in over a month now. I don’t even know conclusively if you’ve been eating. For all I know, you’ve been stacking all the food in a corner to summon low-level horrorterrors.

When you’re ready, please talk to me. I miss Aradia, but I miss you as well. The difference is that there’s something that I can do for you. Aradia’s lost. I’m not going to lose you too.

Dirk.

*****

tipsyGnostalgic opened memo: grab the cake and the fuckin cnadles jakeys BDAY BASH  
TG: HAPPY BDAY JAKEY BOI!!!  
\-- golgothasTerror [GT] began responding to memo --  
GT: Goodness gracious this is certainly a welcome surprise!  
TG: ur totes welcome jakey wakey  
\-- gutsyGumshoe [GG] began responding to memo --  
GG: Happy Birthday, Jake!!  
GT: Golly thanks jane!  
GG: Anything for my favourite cousin.  
\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began responding to memo --  
TT: Happy birthday, Jake.  
GT: Im moved strider.  
TT: You better be.  
TT: Very few people can definitively say they’ve ever heard those words from me before. Consider yourself blessed by my brilliantly rad wishes.  
GG: I’ve heard those words from you, Dirk.  
TT: Consider yourself blessed as well.  
TG: u better bless me in three days  
TT: I’m not so sure about that, Roxy.  
TT: There’s a reason Strider birthday wishes are so valuable, and that reason is artificial scarcity. I’m not sure if I’m willing to risk compromising my entire operation for your sake.  
TG: dont be a party pooper mr dork strider  
GG: Now, now, let’s not fall into name-calling. Roxy, Dirk, be mature.  
TT: Am I ever not?  
GG: Yes.  
TG: yup  
GT: All the time chum!  
TT: …  
TT: I would say I feel betrayed, but I don’t think I’m even surprised about this three-way backstabbing.  
GT: Youre always acting so uppity and adulty but youre really just a big goof inside.  
GT: I mean you once sent me a thirty-line rant about horses strider. At one in the morning.  
TT: Objection.  
TG: denied  
TG: dork  
GG: Order in the court!  
TG: yes maam  
GT: *Snaps to attention and salutes crisply.*  
TT: Are we in a military court now?  
TG: aw fuck yass  
TG: were badass soldiers now  
GG: Ahem!  
GG: Roxy, this was your idea. Do you have anything planned?  
TG: duh yeah  
TG: were gonna go on a movie marathon  
TT: Oh fuck no.  
TG: oh fuck yes :3  
GT: Boy does this sound fun! This might be the best birthday surprise ever!  
GT: Roxy how can i ever repay you?  
TG: all i want in return is ur soul  
TG: or u know  
TG: send pics  
TG: ;)  
GT: Er.

You spend the day watching incredibly shitty movies alongside your best friends. For reasons even you don’t know, you’ve never been happier.

*****

tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT]  
TG: yo dirky dirk  
TT: Yes?  
TG: its december 3  
TT: Shockingly enough, it is.  
TG: u know what dat means…  
TG: HPAPY FUCKING BDAY!!!!  
TT: Huh.  
TG: wut  
TT: I expected you to create a memo for the four of us. Instead, it seems that you’ve chosen to settle with a private chat.  
TG: yeah well i was wroried bout u  
TG: *worried  
TG: i know u like ur privacy and stuff  
TG: besides i had smth to tell u  
TG: dont worry im totes makin a memo for u after this  
TT: Go on, then.  
TG: this is a kinda tough day for kan  
TG: she usually spends today in the garden  
TG: actalluy looking out the window rn i c her there  
TG: *actually  
TG: i was thinking maybe u should talk to her  
TG: her chumhandle is grimAuxiliatrix  
TG: she misses u ya knwod  
TG: *kwen  
TG: *know  
TT: You haven’t told Kanaya about my continued survival?  
TG: nope  
TG: i figured ud wanna do that urself  
TT: Yeah. I do.  
TT: I mean, I always planned on contacting her.  
TT: I just, well.  
TG: janey told me bout this stuff  
TG: took u motthn to tlk to me rite  
TG: *montsh to talk  
TG: *months ot talk  
TG: clsoe enough  
TT: I may have a problem with social interaction.  
TG: no shiiiiiiiit  
TG: do u know what my advice is  
TG: just do it  
TG: aint notin to it  
TG: *nothin  
TG: just talk to her  
TG: shell be happy af  
TT: That’s almost identical to what Jane told me about you.  
TG: she was rite wanste esh  
TG: *wasnt hse  
TG: *wandt she  
TG: *wasnt she  
TT: She wasn’t anticipating the whole slew of accusatory semi-speciesist threats.  
TG: shhhhh dirky  
TG: shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh  
TG: past is in the pas now no need to bring it up  
TG: *past  
TT: Are you alright?  
TT: It’s not hard to notice that your typing seems to be less accurate than usual.  
TG: waaaaaaaat  
TG: of course not dkir ur imaginin shit  
TG: *dork  
TG: *dick  
TG: omg haha diiiiiiick  
TT: I admittedly have a hard time believing that could even be a typo.  
TG: yknow me always ecxeedin expectations  
TG: *exceeding  
TT: Roxy, are you alright?  
TG: aw dont be like tha  
TT: Are you just fucking with me?  
TG: course not  
TG: u think id do tht to my favorite brother  
TG: watcha think i am  
TG: so meeaaan

You frown, cycling through a list of potential causes for Roxy’s erratic behaviour. Maybe… She’s too young for that, but the over-the-top proclamations and considerable lack of fine motor skills could definitely imply that… 

TT: Roxy.  
TG: yup dirky dirk  
TT: Are you drunk?  
TG: no  
TG: i mean  
TG: not yet

Oh shit. _Roxy…_

TT: Holy fuck, Roxy. You’re nine.  
TG: im p mych ten by now  
TG: besides im not durnk  
TG: *much *dunk  
TG: *drunk  
TT: How much have you had so far?  
TG: not that much  
TT: Concrete numbers, please.  
TG: like  
TG: dont get mad ok  
TT: I promise I won’t. I’m just concerned.  
TG: a coupla these rlly pink martninis  
TT: How many glasses?  
TG: one  
TG: when i started chattin u  
TG: talmost a full bottle now  
TG: im opepin tha second rn  
TG: imma fckin chug thsi shiiiiit  
TG: fuckin pop dat crok rite off  
TG: *too many tupos to fix  
TT: Don’t do that.  
TT: Seriously, Roxy, don’t do that.  
TG: whyyyy  
TT: You’re ten, Roxy. Your body can’t tolerate all the alcohol you’re consuming.  
TG: ur no fun dirky dirk  
TT: Just.  
TT: I’ll tell Kanaya, okay?  
TG: noooo  
TG: dont tlel kan  
TG: shell be mad  
TG: srsy dirk dont do it  
TG: dirk  
TG: pelase  
TG: dont tell her  
TT: Fine.  
TT: Just stop drinking, alright?  
TG: :(  
TT: Roxy.  
TG: ok ok  
TG: bye bye delicious botlte of wine  
TG: i dun need u  
TG: im a sortng and independent woman who dun ndee no man  
TG: agh  
TG: oh nuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu  
TT: What happened?  
TG: i dropped ti  
TG: its smdashed  
TT: Ignore it. Get away from any broken glass near you.  
TG: ay ay cpatain  
TT: How’re you feeling?  
TG: diizzy  
TG: tired  
TG: bad  
TT: Don’t fall asleep.  
TG: so fuckin mature dirkyyy  
TT: Don’t fall asleep, Roxy.  
TG: yeah yeah fine  
TG: saw tha first tiem  
TT: Where are you?  
TG: in my room  
TT: Stay there.  
TT: Whatever you do, do not fall asleep.  
TG: yessir  
timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering tipsyGnostalgic [TG]  
TG: dirk  
TG: hey diiiiiirk  
TG: whyd u leave  
TG: im sorry  
TG: i dont know what i did  
TG: come back dirk  
TG: i hate today as well  
TG: i never told u that  
TG: i hate it so mycg  
TG: it hurts  
TG: it slill does even now  
TG: i msis them all so fuckin much  
TG: pls coem back  
TG: drik  
\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] is now an idle chum! --

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering grimAuxiliatrix [GA]  
TT: Kanaya.  
GA: Might I Inquire As To How You Know My Name  
TT: No time for that.  
TT: Roxy’s in her room. She’s dangerously drunk.  
TT: You need to find her now.  
GA: Who Are You  
TT: Roxy’s in danger, Kanaya.  
TT: Please, I’m begging you. Run.  
grimAuxiliatrix [GA] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT]

*****

“Roxy? Drinking?” Jane stares at you, dumbfounded, her whisk dripping cake batter onto the countertop.

You nudge Jane’s hand back over the bowl and grab a paper towel. “Yeah,” you say.

Jane frowns. “Oh dear,” she says. “I do hope you got her to stop.”

“Sort of,” you say. “I may have messaged Kanaya about it.”

This earns you an approving nod from Jane. “Good. I suspect Roxy was rather adamant against that particular course of action?”

“Surprisingly so,” you admit.

“Kanaya has some extreme feelings about soporifics,” Jane explains. “Roxy told me once that she locks all their alcohol in their basement.”

“Wouldn’t it be more effective to just impose a blanket ban on drinking?” you ask.

“She tried,” Jane says. “Porrim refused to listen.”

You nod. You don’t know anything substantive about Porrim, and you find yourself feeling somewhat curious. You’ll have to pester Roxy about her sometime. When she’s sober, of course. You want as much information about her situation as you can possibly have.

“Help me with this,” Jane says, and you open the oven door for her as she shoves a tray full of batter into is glowing red-orange maw. She sets the timer when you close the door. “There we go,” Jane says, wiping her hands on the makeshift apron you made her with some of your too-small clothes. “It’ll be ready in an hour. We can whip out the frosting then and really pretty this thing up!”

You smile at her. “Thanks, Jane.”

“No problem at all!” she says cheerily. “I’m always happy to bake cakes, Dirk.”

“Not just for that.”

She purses her lips. Feeling like you’ve messed up somehow, like you’re screwing up one of the few happy moments you’ve gotten recently, you hastily backtrack.

“I mean, you’ve done a lot, that’s it. I’m not referring to anything in particular-”

“Dirk,” she interrupts, shutting you up. “You don’t need to thank me.”

“Sorry,” you say, sure that you’ve somehow messed up. “I don’t know why I say shit like this. I just can’t let anything good stay good.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” Jane insists. “I’m grateful, really, that you see fit to thank me, but I was just being a friend.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t deserve my thanks,” you say. “Anyway, it’s not like I’ve had an abundance of friends to help me out. Besides, I was being an idiot. You shouldn’t have had to drag my lazy ass into the shower every day.”

Jane shakes her head. “You weren’t being an idiot. You were grieving. It’s, well, it’s tough. I know that personally.” She glances upwards. “When I first got here, after my father had been killed, I was devastated. I’m not sure if you noticed at the time, but I was shocked and angry and a complete wreck.”

That makes you pause for a moment. Jane? Jane was a wreck? You think back on her recollections of her before you became friends. You remember her in the throne room, hands tied together, shaking and scared, steely voice carried forth on currents of fury and contempt. You remember the second time you saw Jane, desperately looking through a Prospitian history book, mirroring the very same actions you undertook when you lost your family. You think of the time gap between the two encounters, and wonder, for the first time, what Jane was doing during that time. Was she in bed, like you, crying into her pillow and begging for just one last chance to tell her father she loved him? Did she gaze blanky out the window, trying to imagine the bright sunlit sky of her home, mind painting fanciful images over the dirty cityscape? Did she fall asleep each night praying that it’s all been a nightmare, that she’ll wake up safe and sound with her family around her and the Condesce far, far away? Was she homesick? Is she homesick?

You suddenly feel embarrassed. You’ve never actually thought of Jane’s grief. Fine, it was always something you’ve acknowledged, something that you knew existed, but you never really thought it impacted her the same way it did to you. You always figured Jane was stronger than you, that she wouldn’t allow that sort of thing to happen to her. And, in a way, she hasn’t—she’s determined and capable and everything you wish you could be, and she’s not lost hope of finding a way out of the mess she’s been launched in. Still, you know she must have hurt. 

“You were by yourself,” you realize out loud. “No one was there to help you.”

Jane nods. “Don’t blame yourself,” she says just as you blame yourself. “I know that’s how you think, Dirk. It wasn’t your fault, really.”

“It kind of was,” you point out. “I should have done something. Logically, I knew I should have done something. I was just too much of an ass to actually bother.”

“That’s not fair,” Jane says. “You didn’t know me. I was a complete stranger to you. I helped you because you’re my friend. You would have helped me had we been friends back then.”

You shake your head. “That’s not a fucking excuse, Jane. I know first-hand how it feels for the Condesce to kill the people I loved. I know first-hand how it feels to be alone. I shouldn’t have let you go through that.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t have,” Jane says, “but I don’t blame you for anything. What I’m trying to say is that, when my father died, I reacted very similarly to you. The only difference is that I was furious. I still am. The Condesce killed my father; she took everything away from me. I was determined to make her pay. That’s what roused me. I never quite understood how you didn’t feel anger as well.”

“I did. It’s just that it didn’t last all that long.”

“How about with Aradia?”

You wince upon hearing her name. “I… I don’t know,” you admit. “To some extent, I expected that. I know that the Condesce is probably an objectively terrible person, and I’m not even sure I believe that anything can be objectively terrible. Getting angry at her about it is, well, it’s like getting angry at a hurricane or a flood. There’s no point. There’s nothing I can do.”

“That’s not true at all,” Jane says, but doesn’t elaborate. The two of you are fully aware that you disagree on fundamental principles of the Condesce. You suspect Jane is itching to tell you why you’re wrong, but she’s keeping it in for the sake of civility.

You shrug. Jane crosses her arms. “Anyway, mister, the point of the story is that I loved my dad. I really did. Losing him was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. I understand grief, Dirk. I understand how you feel. I just wish you could open up sometimes. I understand and I want to help, but I have no idea how to.”

“You’ve helped plenty,” you tell her.

It’s Jane’s turn to shrug now. “I don’t know about that,” she says. “I feel so helpless, Dirk. I don’t ever know what to do.”

You actually laugh at that, letting out an angry, bitter snort. “That makes two of us, Jane.”

*****

Once the cake has been frosted and chilled, Jane cuts large slices for the two of you, and you chatter aimlessly, talking about little things. You learn that it doesn’t snow in Prospit, that it’s always sunny outside, that the summer heat gets unbearable sometimes, but at least the winters are balmy. You tell her that Derse used to have a festival of sorts in the winter called Christmas. “We still have that,” Jane tells you. You’re baffled. 

“But there’s no snow,” you say.

“There isn’t.”

“Fuckin’ weird,” you mumble.

The two of you move onto classical Prospitian and Dersite literature, before briefly delving into the realm of philosophy. You talk about a troll philosopher and spiritual figurehead popular in Alternian folklore. “The Signless might actually be a troll version of Christ,” you inform Jane. “I was looking into that when I was eight, actually, as a sort of pet project. There are a startling number of similarities between the two.”

Jane looks thoughtful. “I didn’t know Alternians-” she still hasn’t made the switch to calling them “trolls” “-were religious.”

“They’re not,” you say. “At least, not officially. The Signless is more of myth nowadays. Most trolls are aware of his story, but doubt the veracity of it. Besides, he preached respect for all trolls regardless of hemospectral differences, which makes him massively unpopular with the highbloods.”

“He sounds kind,” Jane notes.

“The execution procedure for traitors is actually based off his execution,” you say, and only realize your mistake when you both fall silent. “Sorry,” you say. “That was kind of a downer.”

“Don’t apologize, Dirk. God knows you do it too often already.” On the table in front of her, Jane’s phone lights up silently. She reads the notification and smiles, quickly typing something out in response. You split the remaining cake into three slices. 

“I guess I have some deliveries to make,” you say.

Jane nods. As you’re leaving, she calls out, “No birthday memo today?”

“I think it’s better this way anyway,” you say.

“I can make one if you want.”

“It’s fine,” you say dismissively. “As long as Jake remembers to message me today, I’ll consider my birthday an overwhelming triumph.”

You’re pretty sure Jane’s texting Jake a reminder when you exit the kitchen.

*****

Nepeta genuinely looks awful. You notice her eyes are puffy and bruised in that characteristic insomniac way. Her hair is flying in all directions, her grey skin so pale it makes a corpse’s complexion seem dusky. She’s in the royal gardens, flat on her stomach in the meticulously trimmed grass, scribbling furiously in a scuffed-up notebook. The instant she sees you, she slams it shut. It reminds you of your father and his journal.

“Cake delivery,” you tell her, handing her a plate.

She sniffs at it before twisting her features into a smile. “Thank you, Dirk!” she purrs. “It smells delicious!”

“No prob. It was mostly Jane’s work, anyway,” you respond. “D’you know where Equius is?”

Nepeta frowns. “No,” she admits, “but I have a feline he’s in his workshop.”

You carefully mask your surprise. Nepeta and Equius are usually attached at the hip, and even when they’re separated, they’re often chatting on Trollian. You don’t think you’ve ever heard one of them say they don’t know where the other is. “Cool,” is all you say. “I’ll be goin’, then.”

“A favour, purr-lease,” Nepeta says. “Tell me how he’s doing.”

That’s certainly an odd request from Nepeta. “Trouble in moirail-land?” you ask, knowing that prying is rude but too curious to stop.

Nepeta pouts. “Pawssibly.”

“I’ll make sure to text you, then,” you say, earning you a grin from the oliveblood.

“You’re a purrfect furrend,” Nepeta says. You don’t bother correcting her.

*****

You find Equius in his workshop, as Nepeta predicted. He’s working on a project of some sort, and you hear hammering and muffled quasi-curses through the door. “Fiddlesticks!” he says when you open the door.

He’s on the ground, a wildly flailing robot beneath him. Its face has been dented multiple times from what you suspect was Equius’s fists. Your hypothesis is proven correct when Equius smashes it again, repeating the motion until the robot finally stills.

“Brought you cake,” you say, placing it on one of his equipment tables.

“Thank you,” Equius mutters, still glaring darkly at the robot.

“How’re you doing?”

“I really don’t see how that’s of any relevance to you,” Equius says sniffily.

You message Nepeta on your way to Sollux’s room.

theseusGrieving [TG] began pestering arsenicCatnip [AC]  
TG: He appears to be beating up a robot. Is that any cause for concern?  
AC: :33 < hmm  
AC: :33 < im not pawsitive, but i think he might be a little miffed…  
TG: I figured.  
AC: :33 < oh no  
AC: :33 < D:  
AC: :33 < thanks for telling me anyway, dirk  
arsenicCatnip [AC] ceased pestering theseusGrieving [TG]

You’re reminded unpleasantly of Sollux’s concern for Aradia before her… death. Before Aradia’s death. Because that’s something that happened. Aradia’s dead. You close your eyes briefly.

You’re very certain that you don’t ever want to see another broken-up pair of moirails.

*****

You knock on the door as you normally do, then set the plate down on the ground. You’re walking back to your room when a creaking sound causes you to turn back. Sollux stands in the doorway, looking more worn and weary, his clothes hanging off of his considerably thinner frame. His skin is sallow, his hair mussed. “Thtrider,” he says. His voice is like a rusty hinge, rough and brittle from lengthy periods of disuse.

“Sollux,” you say back. You’re not sure if this is actually happening.

Sollux stares at you, then looks down at the cake you’ve placed in front of the door. He picks it up, then turns away. “Happy birthday,” he says. “Come in.”

The two of you sit on the ground. Sollux’s room has only gotten more disorderly since your last visit, random junk and dirty clothes littering the floor. Many of the computers seem to have been attacked with a jackhammer, their parts strewn over the crowded tables, their displays cracked and empty.

“I can help you clean up,” you say.

“Fuck off,” he says. “It ithn’t that bad.” It really is that bad, but you don’t feel like arguing with him, especially when the two of you are still on rocky terrain, so you keep your mouth shut.

After a moment of awkward silence, Sollux clears his throat. “Tho,” he says, “JN told me that I wath being an idiot around you.”

“Jane?” you ask. “You’ve been talking to her?”

“Thometimeth,” Sollux says. “Thee wanted to know how I wath doing. After, you know. After thit went down.”

You accept the proof that Jane is a significantly better human being than you with grace. “Did she convince you to stop ignoring me?”

“No,” Sollux says. “I made that dethithion by mythelf.”

“Alright,” you decide. The two of you wait for the other to respond. Finally, you sigh. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.”

“Let’th thtart with your fucking apology letter,” Sollux suggests. You wince.

“Ah, shit,” you say. “I thought it was fine at the time, but thinking back on it, I-”

“It was fine. Kind of pretetenthiouth, if I’m being honetht, but otherwithe fine. Tell me, DK. Wath that thinthere?”

“Was it sincere?” You’re a bit thrown off by the question. “Fuck yeah it was, Sollux. Does it not sound like it?”

“It doethn’t make thenthe for you to be all like ‘I’m gonna let AA go off herthelf’, then turn around and thay, ‘oh, I’m tho thorry about that, I mith her ath well, et thetera, et thetera. Thoundth like a load of hoofbeatht thit to me.”

“That would sound like a load of horseshit, except I didn’t let Aradia die,” you say flatly. “I stopped you from murdering yourself along with her.”

“I’m not talking about that,” Sollux snaps. “I mean, yeah, I am pithed off about that becauthe it wath fucking terrible of you to do—try waking up to thee your moirail with a fucking arrow in her heart, fuckath—but that’th not what I’m predominantly contherned about. What botherth me ith that you knew thee was going to kill herthelf and you didn’t thtop her.”

You frown. “If you’re referring to her plans to assassinate the Condesce, no, I wasn’t aware of them. It was as much of a shock to me as it was to you.”

Sollux’s expression sours. “You’re telling me you had no idea what thee wath planning to do?”

“Yeah. That’s what I’m telling you.”

“You were with her the night thee fucked up.”

“I was for a while. She helped me with some arrangements I had to make.” Like hell you’re admitting to Sollux that Aradia held your hand while you held back tears, your numb fingers wrapped around your the handle of a shovel, your numb heart clinging on to the stupid puppet you buried underneath the very same sky that mocked you with the promise of freedom only a few years ago.

Your conversational partner lets out a quiet growl. For a second, you’re nervous, and you wish you had your (Aradia’s) katana with you. Then, Sollux whips off his glasses and rubs at his eyes furiously. He sniffs quietly.

“Fuck,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him.

“I’m not forgiving you yet,” he says, glaring at you. “You’re thtill a nookthtain for knocking me out.”

“Yeah,” you say. “I know.”

“Why did you do it?” he asks. “If you weren’t with AA, why?”

“You were going to get yourself killed,” you restate. “I knew Aradia was screwed, but you’re important enough for the Condesce to want to keep around.” You consider asking him about why that is, but decide against it. You have some tact, at least. “Besides, I think… Well, I think Aradia wanted me to.” Sollux pauses from his aggressive eye-eviscerating movements to scowl at you skeptically. “She noticed me in the crowd,” you explain, “and she just stared at me and made really subtle gestures with her eyes. I thought I owed her enough to keep her moirail safe, in the very least.”

“That thure as fuck thoundth like her,” Sollux says bitterly. “Protecting otherth for the goddamn greater good, whatever the hell that ith.”

“I think she wanted to martyr herself,” you speculate carefully.

“Thee wath a fucking idiot, but even thee wathn’t that dumb,” Sollux says. “I’m thure thee mutht have thought thee had thome chanthe at killing the Condethe.”

“Perhaps,” you say, “but I understood that she also wanted to make a statement. You didn’t hear her last words, Sollux.”

“Whothe fault ith that?” he asks.

“Mine, obviously,” you say, then continue on. “She had this meticulously planned-out speech in which she basically told everyone that the Condesce was only powerful because she had society backing her up, and that the people hold power over her, or something like that.”

“Tho you’re telling me you think thee died becauthe thee wanted attenthion?”

“Not like that. She wanted change, and she wanted to convey her message. She realized her best shot at doing that would be by getting herself executed, because it draws the attention of the public. She was willing to die to get her cause across.”

Sollux glowers. “Thee was willing to backthtab her moirail to get her thtupid fucking cauthe acroth.”

“Well,” you say, “that too.”

“I just- I just don’t get it,” Sollux spits. “What the fuck happened to her? Where the fuck did I go wrong? Thee was never like thith before.”

“Like what? Determined? Angry?”

“Not that.”

“I noticed she seemed a lot more confident later on, that she got bolder-”

“No! Thut up, Thtrider, and let me talk!” You shut up. “Thank you. What I’m trying to thay ith that thee wath never thith fucking _caring_!” 

That throws you for a loop. “I wouldn’t be sure about that,” you say hesitantly.

“Of course you wouldn’t be. You’ve known for her leth than two thweepth, DK. I’ve known her for five. We were friends in Alternia, thinthe we’re both the dethendantth of trollth the Condethe hated.” Sollux notes your surprise, and grimaces. “Yeah, I have an anthethtor too. He died before I wath hatched. The Condethe used him ath a fucking car battery and ended up killing him after thee rammed her fucking thip into thome rockth. Thee figured thee’d have a replathement made, thaid replathement being me. Anyway, Aradia and I were brought up together for two thweepth. Back then, thee was the thweetest fucking thing imaginable. Thee wath dithguthtingly cheerful all the time—really, it wath annoying ath fuck. Thee wath a chronic optimitht, and thee wath tho fucking carefree. Nothing really mattered to her. Everything wath alwayth fine and thunny and thit. Thee didn’t really care, not enough to do anything drathtic. It was one of the thingth that uthed to pith me off about her—thee jutht couldn’t be bothered to give half a thit. Then, thee wath carted off to the Condethe, and I jutht wanted her back.

“When I wath three thweepth old, I managed to ethcape Alternia with the help of a troll named Karkat Vantas.”

You blink. “Karkat? My father’s advisor?”

“Yeah, that bulgelicker,” Sollux confirms. “He was an ambathathin from Prothpit, at the time. He felt bad for me, so he pulled a dumbath move and thtole me from the Condethe herthelf. Obviouthly, that’d be a declarathion of war from Prothpit, tho he rethigned from hith pothithion and fled to Derthe with me and Kanaya Maryam. I thpent half a thweep in the palathe and had to witneth the whole repulthive human pregananthy debacle involving your mother and you.”

“You knew my mother?” you ask.

“I did.”

You’d never considered that, of all the people you know, Sollux was the one with connections to your past. You want to beg him for details on your parents, for anything that might sharpen the increasingly blurred memories in your head, but you abruptly recall the night before Aradia’s death. _Home is dead,_ you had thought, and you were right. You refuse to let yourself get caught up in those delusions again, refuse to let yourself face that heartbreak another time. You’re not a masochist. You’d rather stay numb.

“Continue,” you tell Sollux. 

“I left the palathe after I had finished programming Pethterchum. I initially wanted it to be a way for Aradia and I to communicate, but I had no way of getting it to her. I went to Prothpit with Maryam to vithit her anthethtor, Porrim, and I ended up thtaying there for a while after launching Pethterchum. Then, I thtarted travelling back and forth between Derthe and Prothpit using the money I got from advertithementth on Pethterchum. I wath jutht a dumbath grub dethperate to find anything about my favourite perthon. I’m genuinely embarathed thinking about it, Jeguth Chritht. Anyway, I wath in Prothpit when the Condethe took over Derthe. I heard that everyone got thlaughtered, which, well, I gueth that’th thitty and all. Then, the Condethe thent a methenger to the Prothpithan palathe to tell them that thee had Aradia Megido and that thee wath ecthpecting a thertain Thollucth Captor to come. It wath a trap—it wath tho fucking obviouthly a trap—but I wath an idiot and I had to find her, tho I went. 

“Apparently, thee heard about my talentth, becauthe the moment I arrived thee grabbed me and put me in thith room and told me to monitor the communicathionth of every citithen in Derthe. That’th fucking impothible, right, tho I programmed thome thitty algorithms to thcan through Trollian and find potenthial traitorth. In exthchange, I got to thee Aradia every day. Thee wath different—quiet and careful and tho fucking unhappy—but thee thtill didn’t give a thingle thit about anything. Thee lotht the ability to, I thought. That wath fine. Thee wath thtill my favourite perthon in the three kingdomth, and I didn’t really give a thit about anything other than her, anyway. I underthtood her thynithithm.”

“She never stopped being cynical,” you point out.

“No, thee didn’t. What thee did thtart doing wath caring. Thee cared about you, you know. The fact that thee liked you pithed me off at firtht, but then I figured it wath good for her to care about thomeone for onthe. You made her happy, I think. I jutht wanted her to be happy.”

“She cared about you as well,” you say. “She loved you.” You’re usually not a fan of using the L-word, but you figure it’s pretty much a fact at this point. No point in skirting around it like an insecure preteen boy. (Although that is, you suppose, what you are.)

“Thee thure wath good at thowing it,” Solux says scathingly.

You shrug, unsure of how to respond.

“Do you know what the real punchline in thith fucked-up joke ith?” Sollux asks angrily. “I wath happy for her. I thought thee wath getting better. Thought thee was finally going to find a life of her own. Then, I thtarted noticing changeth in her behaviour. I wath worried about her, and thee refuthed to anther my quethtionth, tho I thtarted monitoring her. And I… I found out that thee wath plotting with thome thort of organizathion.”

“You mean there were others behind the scenes of her execution?” you demand.

“Yeth. That’th why I thought you collaborated with her. I confronted her about it and thee refuthed to talk to me for dayth. Thaid I violated her goddamn privathy. I wath dethperate, and I didn’t want to lose her, tho I jutht let it go. I wath planning on getting her to change, but I didn’t want to hurt her, and I didn’t want to get hurt. I wath a fucking coward, and I jutht let her die. 

“I don’t blame you for AA’s death, Thtrider. Not entirely, anywayth. I wath the one who wath complathent. I wath a terrible moirail—didn’t even try to ground her, to make her reconthider her acthionth. In the end, I couldn’t even prevent her from killing herthelf.”

Sollux spits the words out as if they’re burning his mouth, and when he’s finished, he falls silent. He sniffs a few time, glistening eyes looking everywhere but at you. Shit. What do you say?

You’re not a comforting person. You have no idea how to help Sollux. Still, you need to say something. Anything. Anything to break the rapidly thickening silence around you.

“I’m sorry,” you finally say, and Sollux bristles.

“Thut the fuck up,” he snaps.

“No, I’m serious,” you insist. “Not because of your whole letting Aradia die bit. I’m sorry that you’re stuck here, and I’m sorry that you had to make that decision in the first place. I’m sorry that the Condesce took Aradia away, and I’m sorry Aradia had to choose between you and her bigger picture. That shouldn’t… That shouldn’t have happened. In any half-decent world, none of this would happen. You shouldn’t have to have gone through everything.”

“Don’t think I don’t know all that,” Sollux says. “Believe me, I’ve whined about it enough timeth.”

“Here’s the thing—you fucked up. Fine. But there’s nothing you could have done in the first place. It’s the reason I knocked you out when you tried to save Aradia on her execution day. There’s absolutely nothing you can do. Even if you’d confronted her, do you honestly think Aradia would have listened to you? I’ve listened to her talk about her “bigger picture” before. Quite frankly, I don’t think anything could have changed her mind. You did what you thought was best, and it wasn’t good enough. Does that mean you’re to blame? Fuck if I know. If I’d been more perceptive, I might have been able to notice something sooner. Would that have saved her? Probably not, but it still bothers me. Guilt is a shitty emotion. I’d know, I’m practically married to it nowadays. You keep asking yourself: Could I have saved her? Could I have saved him? Maybe I could have. But why does that matter anymore? It’s over; there’s nothing we can do. So we torture ourselves with what-if scenarios and drive ourselves mad imagining realities in which we were the heroes, in which we could have been anything other than terribly helpless and weak.

“The day before Aradia’s execution was my wriggling day. The Condesce gave me the shades I’m currently wearing and she gave me one of my childhood toys. Aradia wanted me to get rid of it. She said it was too dangerous. I didn’t give a shit about that; all I wanted was to keep holding on to my past. That’s why I ended up burying the thing. I wanted to bury my past, to hide it so that it could no longer bother me, to cut it away so the Condesce couldn’t control me with it. As needlessly dramatic as my stupid burying thing was, it didn’t work in the slightest. I miss home as much as ever. What has changed, on the other hand, is that I understand the pointlessness of it all. I understand that the past doesn’t do anything but hurt me. Aradia told me, that night, that pain reminds us that we’re alive. She told me that she would rather care than not. I don’t agree with her. I’m tired of hurting, Sollux. I’m tired of hurting because shit happened years ago and I can’t change a thing about it. All I want to do is move on. 

“So, yeah, I get that you miss Aradia. I get that you can’t accept that she’s gone. I can’t either. But, in the very least, do yourself a fucking favour and stop feeling guilty about it. We’re all equally to blame, and she is most of all, and I just want to stop stabbing the wound and just let it scab over.”

Sollux is still. You’re starting to think you’ve probably fucked up somehow when he finally buries his face between his knees. “I don’t even know what happened to her body,” he whispers.

You weren’t expecting that response. The anger seems to drain out of you as swiftly as it came. “I don’t know either,” you say softly. 

You don’t know what happened to any of their bodies. You just hope they got to be buried somewhere nice.

*****

grimAuxiliatrix [GA] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT]  
GA: So  
GA: I Believe You Owe Me Some Answers  
TT: I believe I do.  
GA: Do Go On Then Stranger  
TT: I wouldn’t be so hasty as to call me a stranger.  
TT: For one thing, Kanaya, let me remind you that I do know your name.  
TT: Secondly, I’ll point out that I know, or at least know of, Roxy Lalonde, your adopted daughter.  
GA: As Alarming As Your Knowledge On These Topics Is I Am Choosing To Be Generous To You  
GA: Either You Are A Stranger Or You Are Someone I Know  
GA: If You Are Someone I Know It Is Likely I Will Not Be Knowing You For Much Longer  
GA: Nor Will Anyone On This Mortal Plane For That Matter  
GA: That Is A Threat If You Did Not Notice  
TT: No worries, I certainly noticed.  
TT: I’m going to be honest, Ms. Maryam, I didn’t quite remember you being so hostile.  
GA: Seeing As You Seem To Know About The Carefully Hidden Identities Of Both Myself And My Daughter I Would Argue That This Level Of Hostility Is Perfectly Deserved On Your Part  
TT: A valid point, I suppose.  
TT: I’ll be cooperative, then. For both of our sakes.  
TT: Ask me any question you want and I’ll answer as honestly as I can.  
GA: How Do You Know My Name  
TT: I know you, Kanaya.  
GA: How Do You Know My Daughters Name  
TT: I know her as well.  
GA: How Do You Know Us  
TT: Consider me a friend from the past.  
GA: A Friend  
TT: Correct.  
GA: I Find That Unlikely Somehow  
TT: I can see how you’d think that. Rest assured, I’m not lying. In fact, I’m sure you remember me. Do you know who I am, Kanaya? Four years may seem long, but I’m sure you can still recall my name.  
GA: Oh God  
GA: Rose

Shit. Not what you were going for.

You’re quickly typing up a response when Kanaya reponds again.

GA: No  
GA: I Am Sorry  
GA: I Misspoke  
GA: You Cannot Be Her  
GA: I Would Know If She Were Still Alive  
GA: Today Is A Bit Of A Difficult Day For Me  
GA: I Have Not Been Thinking As Clearly As I Should  
TT: Yeah, that was…  
TT: Sort of far off.  
TT: Not by too much, to tell you the truth.  
GA: What Do You Mean  
TT: I’m sorry. I need to stop playing this whole dancing-around-the-fucking-bush game and get to the point.  
TT: I’m Dirk Strider.  
TT: It’s my birthday today, and Roxy was telling me you might want to hear from me.  
TT: I was planning on contacting you in a more suitable method, but I was worried about Rox.  
TT: So sorry about fucking that up as well.  
TT: I realize I probably shouldn’t be swearing in a chat with my former caretaker.  
TT: Old habits die hard, I suppose.  
TT: It’s not as if I’ve been getting a lot of chiding from responsible adults about my obscene language.  
TT: Well, other than Equius, but I’d hardly call him responsible. Or an adult, for that matter.  
TT: Kanaya?  
TT: You’re not responding.  
TT: Are you alright? Have I fucked this up again?  
TT: I seem to be particularly talented at screwing up conversations as majestically as possible.  
TT: Okay, I get the message.  
TT: See you on the flip side.  
GA: Wait  
GA: Please Do Not Leave  
GA: I Am Sorry  
GA: I Needed Some Time To Adjust  
GA: Dirk  
TT: Yes?  
GA: Oh My God  
GA: It Is You  
TT: Shockingly enough, it is in fact me.  
GA: You Sound Like Her  
TT: Her? You mean my mother?  
GA: Your Mother  
GA: Rose  
GA: Is She  
TT: Unfortunately not.  
TT: Same with my father. They’re both confirmed dead.  
GA: Where Are You  
TT: I’m in the Condesce’s palace. For reasons still unknown to me, I’m her heir.  
GA: Oh Dear This Sounds Problematic  
TT: It’s not that bad.  
TT: Well, I mean, bad is relative.  
TT: It could be worse is what I’m saying.  
GA: None Of This Is Reassuring Me Of Your Safety  
TT: I’m as safe as I can be, Kanaya. Don’t worry.  
GA: It Is Useless To Ask Me To Not Worry Dirk  
GA: Nonetheless Know That I Could Not Be Happier About The News Of Your Survival  
GA: I Was Certain That You Had Been Killed Along With Your Mother  
TT: I was similarly happy when I learned that you and Roxy were still alive.  
TT: I’ve been meaning to contact you for some time. I was nervous about messing up the conversation, though. I’m sure you can extrapolate why from my previous overwhelmingly childish and pretentious statements.  
TT: I wish I could blame it on the Condesce’s influence, but I suspect it may be all me.  
GA: You Share That Particular Fault With Your Mother  
GA: Every Conversation With Her Was A Frustratingly Cryptic Puzzle I Had To Piece Together Through Mastering Both Metaphors And Human Sarcasm  
TT: Fascinating. Strangely enough, I don’t quite remember that aspect of her.  
GA: She Was Less Confusing When Speaking To You And Roxy  
TT: Huh.  
TT: It strikes me now that I know next to nothing about my parents.  
TT: That’s a little alarming, is it not?  
GA: I Can Tell You Everything  
TT: As kind as that offer is, I think it’s best that I graciously reject that offer for the moment being.  
TT: How’s Roxy?  
GA: She Is Currently Unconscious  
GA: How Much Did She Drink  
TT: An entire bottle, according to her.  
GA: Jegus  
TT: Jegus indeed.  
GA: I Am Grateful That You Informed Me  
TT: I’m grateful that you found her.  
GA: You Turned Eleven Today Did You Not  
TT: I do.  
GA: You Are Surprisingly Articulate For An Eleven Year Old.  
TT: Seeing as I used to pretty much live in the library, I’m not surprised.  
GA: You Sound Like Everything I Loved About Your Mother And Your Father  
TT: Do I.  
GA: But Most Of All You Sound Like Yourself  
GA: I Have Missed You So Much  
GA: Know That You Can Talk To Me Anytime  
TT: Of course.  
GA: I Love You Dirk  
GA: You Must Not Ever Forget That  
TT: I won’t.

Your finger hovers over the enter button hesitantly, then presses it in one sharp motion.

TT: I love you too, Kanaya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Death, stylized descriptions of blood.
> 
> Yeah, so. Hello there, minor character death tag. Fancy seeing you here.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading this chapter and thanks for everyone who commented last time! It really makes my day when I read what you guys have to say about this fic.
> 
> A note on this world: As you might remember from the first non-prologue/second chapter, trolls arrived on Earth in the early eighteenth century. Trolls and humans have had hostile relations for the past three centuries, and have mostly lives separately, not counting invasions and the like. Because of that, the technology humans have still resembles ours, though they do have better military tech and less entertainment. Still, they do have movies, etc., which have become widespread in the decades of peacetime since the Imperial Civil War (the war that resulted in our two human kingdoms). Thus, the people in this world have media that is like ours (for example, they still have a Matthew McConaughey who acted in various movies similar to movies we'd watch). The only difference is that the different political, social, and economic environments have led to changes in the themes and genres they have. For example, the "forbidden interspecies romance" was very popular in the 1980s, and stories in that category were often based off of the (highly romanticized) experiences of Alternian refugees in the early twentieth century.
> 
> So, basically, Jake still gets his terrible movies, Karkat still gets his terrible romcoms, and Jane still gets her terrible detective stories.


	8. Disciplinary Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad news, extended bloodlust, a heartfelt conversation, a parting gift, a massacre, and the joys of stargazing.
> 
> (TW in notes.)

You can’t say the grief ever fades away, but it does thin out as time goes by, the once-thick fog of sorrow dissolving into an occasional cold melancholy cloud coming and going like morning mist over a lake. You wake up the first day of the New Year and fetch your own clothes from your closet. It only strikes you later, when you’re showering after your Condesce-led training, that you’ve acclimatized yourself to Aradia’s absence. The thought doesn’t hurt as much as you expect it to, and you turn in around in your mind, examining it absent-mindedly.

As your previously grief-clouded vision clears, you begin to realize the Condesce has changed. At first, you think you’re finally seeing her true nature. By February, however, you’re aware that something truly has changed. Her once-frequent jokes have diminished in number, her mood darkening, her eyes growing ever more suspicious. She begins asking for increasingly detailed reports on Jane’s behaviour and actions, cross-examining you for inconsistencies in your story. One day in early March, she asks you if you hate her.

“Sorry, could you repeat that?” you ask, nervous.

“I asked if you hate me, guppy,” she drawls.

Do you hate her? “No,” you tell her.

“Don’t lie to me,” she snaps.

You bite your lip. “I don’t particularly hate you, Your Imperious Condescension. I think I ran out of hatred to feel years ago.”

The Condesce surveys you carefully. Her face slowly splits into a wide grin. “Good thing you ain’t a gill,” she says.

That reply confuses you. “Why’s that?” you question cautiously.

“Gills are ruthless,” says the Condesce. “Guppy, you’re just one big soft ball of kelp.”

You’re not entirely sure how to feel about her interpretation of your character. “That hardly sounds like a good thing.”

“It ain’t,” says the Condesce, “but I’m rather frond of you the way you are.”

“Huh,” you say expressionlessly. “Is that so.”

“‘Course it is. Don’t you ever dare change on me, guppy.”

You interpret that “changing on her” means “turning on her” in this context.

“I won’t,” you assure her. You’re pretty sure you’re lying.

*****

tipsyGnostalgic [TG] opened memo: yall we gotta porblem right here!  
\-- tipsyGnostalgic renamed memo to memo: yall we gotta problem right here! --  
TG: yall  
TG: we gotta  
TG: problem  
\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began responding to memo --  
TT: Just spit it out, Rox.  
TG: in here  
\-- gutsyGumshoe [GG] began responding to memo --  
GG: Oh dear. Has something happened?  
TG: yep  
TG: looooots  
TG: looooots of shit has happened  
TG: all of it  
TG: aaaaaaaall the shit  
TT: If the point of this memo is to discuss the varieties of feculent materials Roxy occupies herself with, I think I’ll go back to working on my robots.  
TG: tsk tsk  
TG: so impatient  
GG: Admittedly, you are taking quite some time in order to get to the point, Roxy!  
TG: patience young garsshopper  
TG: *grasshoepper  
TG: *grasshopper  
\-- golgothasTerror [GT] began responding to memo --  
GT: Oh gosh darn it im terribly sorry im late! *wipes sweat from my brow*  
GT: What exactly are we discussing here?  
TT: Roxy’s shit.  
GT: Pardon?  
TG: p much wut he said  
GG: That’s not true in the slightest.  
GT: *Wrings my hands worriedly.*  
GG: Roxy wanted to tell us about something.  
GT: Oh! Were you discussing the dersite invasions?  
TG: took the words rite outta my mouth jakey boy  
TT: Invasions?  
TG: have u two not heard  
GG: Not at all! What invasions could you ever be referring to?  
TG: was that sarcasm  
GG: That was completely sincere.  
GG: Sorry, I didn’t mean to come off as anything but.  
GT: I guess you dont have much access to news on prospit?  
TT: We can access the Internet through our untampered devices, but we don’t regularly do so. At least, I don’t.  
GG: I don’t either.  
TG: listen up then kids  
TG: ms rolals here to teach yall the lsseon of a lifetime  
TG: *lesson  
TG: so u know for a while the fishbitchs army has just been casually chilling in the farther out towns of Prospit  
TG: they kinda just stopped trying after they got ahold of jane  
TG: they prolly got bored or smth  
TG: BUT  
TG: butbutbut  
TG: yesterday they rolled out their big guns  
TG: and sadly i aint talking bout the sexy kinds  
TG: they started moving cloer to the center of prospit  
TG: *closer  
TG: to the capital  
GT: Gramma thinks they want to take over prospit the same way they took over derse.  
TT: Ah, shit.  
TT: I guess that was to be expected.  
GG: This is certainly bad news! How are the two of you faring?  
TG: could b worse  
TG: kans worried af tho  
GT: Ive been placed under house arrest for now. Absolutely NO leaving the palace for any reason whatsoever.  
TT: Welcome to the club, bro.  
TG: sucks man  
GG: I know you don’t like it, Jake, but it’s important that you listen to the counsellors!  
GG: It sounds awfully dangerous in Prospit right now. The last thing we can afford is for you to be injured or even killed.  
GT: Of course jane dear! I’ll stay inside.  
TG: ten bucks hell break that prosmie by next motnh  
TG: *promise *monht  
TG: *month  
GT: Hey!  
GT: I resent that you think my honor so broken!!  
GG: This is hardly an appropriate topic to be betting on, Roxy.  
TT: I’ll take that.  
GG: Dirk.  
TG: fuck yass dirky :3  
TG: high five up top  
GG: You don’t even have ten dollars, Dirk.  
TT: I will by the end of the month.  
TG: ohhhhhhh  
TG: u r so fuckin on  
GT: Do i get a say in this malarkey?  
TT: Unfortunately not.  
TT: My nonexistent ten bucks are depending on your gentlemanly behaviour, Jake. Don’t you dare let me down.  
TG: nah let him down whenever  
TG: dude neesd to downsize his ego  
TG: *needs  
GT: Ill actually agree with you on that one roxy.  
TT: Et tu, brute?  
\-- gutsyGumshoe [GG] ceased responding to memo --  
TG: janey  
TG: oh noes  
TG: did we actually piss her off :(  
TT: Wait.  
TT: I’m getting a private chat from her.  
\-- timaeusTestified [TT] is now an idle chum! --

gutsyGumshoe [GG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT]  
GG: Dirk.  
TT: Care to explain why you left the group memo?  
GG: There’s a situation taking place.  
TT: Haven’t we been discussing said situation for ten minutes now?  
GG: Not that one.  
GG: There’s an execution. In front of the palace.

Your heart stills.

TT: Again?  
GG: Again.  
TT: Is it…  
GG: A servant. Nobody we know.  
TT: Where are you?  
GG: Looking out a window.  
GG: You can stay right where you are, Dirk. I just thought you’d be concerned.  
TT: I am.  
TT: Very much so, in fact.  
TT: Have you noticed that the Condesce has been acting increasingly strange, as of late?  
GG: I honestly can’t tell. I haven’t seen her much.  
TT: Aradia once told me what she feared most was betrayal.  
TT: It appears said fear has been reignited by Aradia’s attempt at her life.  
TT: Do you know what the execution is for?  
GG: No, I  
GG: Wait.  
GG: The servant is showing some sort of necklace.  
TT: A necklace?  
GG: He’s displaying it to the audience.  
TT: Wait a second.

You rush out of your room and dash to the nearest window you can find. Outside, you see a thick crowd. A now-familiar wooden frame has been set up. The palace executioner stands still in front of it, Equius by his side. Being tied to the frame is the servant Jane had mentioned. His face is flushed bronze, his mouth opening and closing in some impassioned speech you can’t hear through the glass of the window. Around his neck dangles a silver chain, a shiny metal symbol strung along it. You can’t see it—the servant is moving far too much, vainly trying to fight off his guards, shouting something at his nervous audience. You grab your phone and snap a picture, then zoom up as far as you can, squinting at the screen. It’s useless. You can’t make anything out.

Out in front of the palace, the servant screams as Zahhak fires an arrow straight into his heart. You avert your eyes, not wanting to see the life drain out of his body.

*****

Once the Condesce is in a killing mood, she doesn’t back out. There are three more executions that week. You learn that the offenses go from being as seemingly insignificant as oversleeping and as grave as actively plotting to overthrow her. They’re all marked as traitors, all killed the exact same way Aradia was—an arrow through the heart, quick and simple, leaving them bleeding and in agony for the public to see.

“Thith wath how it wath like,” Sollux tells you and Jane one day. Jane, anxious from the constant executions and the worsening situation in Prospit, has taken to baking pastries almost every day. You share them with Sollux, and, in an attempt to cheer her up, the Condesce. She merely stabbed it with her trident and tells you that eating food made by your enemies was a sign of weakness.

“I helped,” you told her.

She frowned. “Just for you, guppy,” she decided, then gobbled up the cake at a truly terrifying speed.

The fact that she called Jane her enemy was not unnoticed by you.

“Are you referring to Alternia?” Jane asks Sollux.

“Yeth,” he confirms. “The way I remember it, at leatht. Thee wath renowned for having daily ecthecuthions for the public to watch.”

“Daily?”

“Daily,” Sollux says. “They called the path to the palathe the Rainbow Road. It was dyed jutht about every colour imaginable. Or tho they thay.”

That’s not comforting in the slightest. Jane sighs. “I need to go to the kitchen,” she says.

*****

You relieve your stress by training into the night. The dark circles under your eyes darken further, and you see Jane constantly shooting you worried looks. One day, when you fall asleep when texting Roxy, she tells you to take a nap.

Jake texts you later and tells you that he’s worried for you. Even Kanaya chips in, saying that Roxy’s told her of your unstable condition. 

You’re tired of being called unstable. You’re tired in general.

*****

Two weeks later, you finally get to see the symbol on the servant’s necklace clearly. 

You know something’s wrong the moment you notice only one Zahhak standing in front of the wooden frame. Equius is trembling, his hands uncertain, the metal bow in his hand misshapen from his too-strong grip. You don’t exit the palace, and neither does Jane, but you both watch through the open palace door.

Two guards shove a tall hooded troll towards the frame. When they get there, the guards rip off the fabric blocking his face, and you’re stunned to see Horuss Zahhak, the executioner himself, arms shackled to the frame—they must have found a better alternative to rope—facing his young apprentice.

_Descendant,_ you realize suddenly. _Equius is his descendant._

“Last words?” the Condesce asks, and the crowd is totally, completely silent.

At that, the former executioner yanks an arm from his shackles. The Condesce bristles, the guards raising their swords. Instead of fighting for his life, Horuss Zahhak tugs on something around his neck, pulling loose a silver chain. He hold it up to the spellbound audience before him, letting the symbol in his hand flash in the sunlight. Without wasting a second, you snap a picture of it on your phone and zoom in.

“What is it?” Jane asks you.

You frown, examining the photo. The symbol appears to made of steel. It’s shaped like two identical curving images, circles chasing each others’ tails. It reminds you of a pair of painted koi fish swimming around each other. You recognize it instantly.

“The Signless,” you breathe, just as Horuss Zahhak speaks his last words.

“We have had enough killing!” screams the Condesce’s former executioner, voice trembling. “I resign my symbol. I resign my blood. I take on the sign of the Signless, and beg that you listen to me. We have had enough killing. We have had enough blood. We have had enough killing because of blood. We disciples of the Signless want nothing but to end this. I beg that you listen to us.”

The Condesce sneers. “Is that it, Horuss?”

Horuss says nothing. He stares straight at his descendant.

Equius swallows visibly, fat droplets of sweat rolling down his face, arrow pointed straight at his ancestor.

“Kill the traitor,” the Condesce orders, and Equius fires.

*****

“The Signleth,” Sollux curses. “Of fucking courthe. Of courthe that’th who thee chothe to join. The fucking Signleth.” 

“I don’t understand,” Jane says. “Is the Signless not a religious symbol?”

“Fuck no,” says Sollux. “He’th the motht fucking blatant thymbol of rebellion in the hithtory of Alternia. Almotht overthrew the Condethe herthelf.”

You frown. “I wasn’t aware of that. The books I’ve read all say he was wildly unsuccessful.”

“That’th becauthe you’re reading bookth written by trollth,” Sollux says. “Anyone who dareth to tell the truth about that fiathco getth an arrow in the blooputher. You have to look at outthide thourceth to remove the biath.”

“That seems almost counterintuitive.”

“That’th becauthe you’re an idiot, Thtrider.”

“Are you telling us that Aradia was working with this Signless group?” Jane asks.

“Yeth,” Sollux says. “I thaw her talking with Horuth.”

“She didn’t mention anything about them,” you point out.

“Thee didn’t want her methage dithcredited ath crazy exthtremithm by the Condethe. Think, DK. You’re not thtupid.”

“You just called me an idiot.”

“You’re not that thtupid.”

“Is it wise, then, to declare yourself a, what was it? Disciple of the Signless?” interrupts Jane. “If the Condesce can dismiss it as terrorism or some such, I mean.”

“There’s a certain strength to it,” you say. “I imagine it’s meant to display that there’s an organized rebel network that wants to overthrow her. Not to mention most trolls have deep feelings on the Signless. Regardless of whether those sentiments are negative or positive, they’re sure to make an impact. They’re attracting attention, which is good. Free publicity, of a sort.”

“More or leth,” Sollux agrees.

Jane rubs her temples. “Sollux, are you with them?”

Sollux laughs. “Fuck no. I gave up on thith thort of rebel thit ageth ago. All I wanted to do was thtay with Aradia.”

“Are you not angry at the Condesce?” Jane asks, her voice likely sharper than she intended.

“I obviouthly am. Look, I hate the Condethe ath much ath anyone elthe. I jutht don’t think there’th any point in opposing her. It’th like apposing a tornado or a flood. You’ll jutht get more hurt.”

Jane glances at you. “That’s what Dirk told me.”

“I gueth he’th not ath dumb ath I thought he wath, then.”

Jane furrows her brow. “What did she do to you to make you think like that?”

You have to smile at that. “You know,” you say, “that’s exactly what I wondered when I first met Aradia.”

You and Sollux share a mirthless grin as Jane looks on, eyes narrowed and lips tight.

*****

GA: Are You Certain It Is The Symbol Of The Signless That These Rebels Are Using  
TT: One hundred percent so.  
TT: Do you find that hard to believe, for some reason?  
GA: No  
GA: I Merely Do Not Want To Believe It  
TT: I think some context would be helpful in allowing me to better understand that statement.  
GA: I Fear That There May Be Someone I Love Dearly Who May Be Behind This  
GA: I Do Not Think He Would Use The Sign Willingly But Perhaps He Finds It Necessary  
GA: Either Way It Is Not A Good Omen  
TT: Details, Kanaya.  
GA: Do You Remember Karkat  
TT: My father’s advisor, correct? Short, shouty, constant bedhead.  
TT: Father referred to him as “Karkles”, among other dubious nicknames, if my memory is to be trusted.  
GA: Yes That Is Him  
GA: He Does Not Like Letting Others Know This But I Feel That This Fact Is Crucial To Your Understanding Of This Situation  
GA: Karkat Was A Mutant  
GA: His Blood Color Was Not On The Hemospectrum  
GA: As Such He Used The Sign Of The Signless As His Caste Symbol  
GA: He Spent Much Of His Youth Attempting To Conceal His Blood Color Before He And His Former Matesprit/Kismesis Managed To Escape To Prospit  
GA: By The Time I Met Him He Was Still Unaccustomed To Showing His Blood  
GA: He Never Quite Adjusted If I Am To Be Honest  
GA: He Kept The Grey Sign Of The Signless For All His Life  
GA: At Least All His Life That I Have Known Him  
GA: I Do Not Know If He Still Wears The Sign Now  
TT: Wait.  
TT: Is Karkat still alive?  
GA: It Is My Belief That He Is  
TT: Holy shit.  
TT: I was certain he was dead.  
TT: I didn’t think he’d be able to avoid fighting.  
GA: Your Father Fended Off The Attacking Alternians While Karkat Fled With Crucial Information  
GA: Treaties Negotiations Financial Records Letters With The Former Prospitian King And Such  
GA: Karkat Sent Me A Message Assuring Me Of His Survival And Of The Destruction Of The Crucial Information A Week After The Attack  
GA: I Have Not Heard From Him Since  
GA: We Both Agreed That It Would Be Unwise To Continue Communications With The Two Of Us Living Undercover  
TT: A few questions.  
GA: Go Ahead  
TT: Did my father tell Karkat to flee with said crucial information?  
GA: Yes  
TT: How do you know?  
GA: He Told Me  
TT: I can then assume that you weren’t with them at the time.  
GA: I Was Not  
TT: Seeing as you ran to retrieve Roxy and my mother ran to retrieve me, I can assume that the two of you were together and came up with a course of action?  
GA: We Were Not But We Did Plan In Advance  
TT: Ah.  
TT: I’ll just be direct, then.  
TT: Were my father and his advisor together on the night of the attack?  
GA: Yes  
TT: Why?  
TT: Was there some sort of midnight meeting they happened to be attending?  
GA: I Do Not Know Their Exact Whereabouts But I Do Know That They Were Alone Together And Heard The Alternians Arriving Through The Palace Door  
TT: Right.  
TT: Why were my father and his advisor together on the night of the attack?  
TT: Or, to rephrase, why were my father and his advisor together at night?  
TT: Were they plotting alone? It seems unwise to do that without the presence of my mother. I’ve been told that she was the strategic genius of my parents.  
GA: I Do Not Believe They Were Plotting  
TT: Why, then?  
GA: It Is Complicated  
TT: Not so complicated that I wouldn’t be able to understand.  
GA: I Am Not So Certain About That  
TT: If you’ll excuse my language, Kanaya, cut the crap.  
TT: Were they having an affair?  
GA: I Would Not Necessarily Call It That  
TT: What would you call it, then?  
GA: I Would Call It Love  
TT: Does it not amount to the same result?  
GA: Hardly  
GA: Dave And Karkat Loved Each Other Much The Same Way Rose And I Loved Each Other  
GA: The Word Affair Can Never Hope To Encapsulate The Depth Of Our Relations  
TT: An affair is a sexual relation held with a party outside of one’s marriage. Using this definition, my father and his advisor were having an affair.  
TT: It is what it is.  
TT: If you’re concerned about any negative connotations the word may carry, rest assured that I personally have no preconceived notions about the morality or lack thereof of the parties engaged in said affair.  
GA: I Do Not Expect You To Understand  
GA: It Is Difficult To Explain Especially To Someone Who Has Not Yet Experienced Something Like It  
TT: My relative lack of experience in so-called “love” shouldn’t be any sort of barrier to explaining this.  
GA: It Is  
GA: I Expect You Are Similar To Dave And Rose When Speaking Of Romance And Sentiments Of The Heart  
GA: Both Were Exceedingly Squeamish With The Topic  
GA: Your Mother Enjoyed Alluding To Her Feelings With Clever Wordplay But Retreated The Moment I Directly Confronted Her About Them  
GA: Your Father Was Even Worse  
GA: He Was To Put It Simply As Thick Headed As A Mule  
GA: He Denied His Flushed Feelings For Karkat Because He Was Preoccupied With His Human Sexuality  
TT: Did he really?  
TT: It seems like such a petty thing to be bothered by.  
GA: I Am Glad You Are Untouched By Those Particular Problems  
TT: I am as well.  
TT: Back to the topic at hand, though.  
TT: Plainly speaking, did my father and his advisor have an affair?  
GA: I Do Not Like Your Wording  
GA: But Yes  
GA: They Did  
TT: I can’t say I’m surprised. Logically, I suppose it does make some sense, despite the way it seems to go against my memories.  
TT: To be honest, I remember the two having a less romantic and more hostile relationship. As such, I assumed they must have been kismeses. The way you’re speaking of the two leads me to believe they were matesprits.  
TT: Were the numerous enraged tirades and thinly-veiled provocations some strange, combative method of flushed flirting?  
GA: I Will Admit That I Do Not Fully Know Either  
GA: I Truly Believed Your Father And Karkat To Be Entering A Kismessitude  
GA: I Believe Karkat Thought The Same As Well  
GA: Needless To Say That Changed  
TT: Might I ask why?  
GA: It Is Somewhat Of A Sore Subject For Me If I Am To Be Honest  
GA: I Would Prefer Not To Discuss It At This Moment  
TT: Of course. I apologize for causing you any discomfort.  
GA: I Assure You That You Have Caused Me No Such Feelings  
GA: I Merely Know When And Where To Stop Pushing  
TT: If only I could have such a talent.  
GA: I Am Sure You Have Many Talents Elsewhere  
TT: At the risk of sounding narcissistic, I’m well aware of that.  
GA: I Am Glad  
GA: Confidence Is Crucial In The Develop Of Children Or So I Am Led To Believe By Porrim  
TT: Wise words from a wise woman.  
GA: Wise Words From A Wise Woman Currently Drunk In My Garden Attempting To Harvest My Carrots With A Champagne Bottle  
GA: Unsuccessfully I Might Add  
TT: We all have our vices.  
GA: I Hear That Alcoholism Is Inherited By Children From Guardians  
TT: I take it that Roxy has followed suit once again?  
GA: She Has Not But I Am Still Concerned  
GA: Your Mother Had Issues With Human Soporific Substances As Well  
GA: She Overcame Them Of Course But At The Peak Of Her Addiction It Was Incredibly Painful For Both Her And Me  
GA: I Do Not Want Roxy Following In Her Footsteps  
GA: I Do Not Want Porrim Leading Her There  
GA: Roxy Is My Daughter And I Will Protect Her At All Costs  
TT: I see.  
TT: I wish you luck, then.  
TT: I’ll make sure to be persistent in ensuring that Roxy doesn’t drink again.  
GA: Thank You Dirk  
TT: A personal question, if you don’t mind.  
GA: I Do Not  
TT: If you think of Roxy as your daughter, what do you think of me?  
GA: That Is A Difficult Question  
TT: Should I expect a difficult answer, then?  
GA: No  
GA: I Think Of You  
GA: Well  
GA: Not As A Son But Also Somewhat As One  
GA: It Is Just That I Cannot Call You My Son When I Know So Little About You  
GA: I Have Not Seen You In Years Yet I Love You All The Same  
TT: You don’t have to apologize to me. I’m perfectly aware that it would be unreasonable for me to believe that my bond with you is anything close to the one you share with Roxy.  
GA: Unreasonable Perhaps But Not Unjustified  
TT: I’m not interested in deluding myself, Kanaya.  
GA: I Can See That  
GA: I Think Of You As Roses Son  
GA: I Believe That Is The Best Way To Explain It  
GA: I Hope You Are Not Upset  
TT: Of course not.  
TT: Although I will admit that it is perhaps ironic, then, that I seem to know more about you than I ever knew about my mother.  
GA: I Am Sorry For That  
TT: I am as well.

*****

It’s mid-May, and you are sprawled across Jane’s bed, soaking up as much sun as you can get through Jane’s open window. Jane herself is engaging in a heated discussion with Roxy over Pesterchum, fingers flying across her screen. She giggles occasionally and even gasps, presumably scandalized. You’re glad to see her so carefree. You rarely get to see Jane relaxed. Since the weekly executions became a regular occurence, Jane has become colder and more distant, speaking less and less with you and your friends, spending increasing amounts of time scouring the library and the Internet. For what, you have no idea, but you keep an eye on the titles of the books she reads. So far, it seems to be relatively innocuous stuff—Alternian culture and history, politics, biographies of famous rulers. You also see her scanning through Prospitian news websites. They’re getting increasingly frantic as town after town is taken by the Condesce’s seemingly unstoppable army.

There’s a knock on the door. Jane glances up, concerned. You are equally worried. You never get visitors now that Aradia is gone.

You gesture at her to go back to her conversation, but she shakes her head and pockets her device, moving towards the door. 

Nepeta stands on the other side, eyes green and puffy, streaks of olive staining her face. She smiles weakly at Jane.

“Is Dirk here?” she asks.

Jane doesn’t know Nepeta well, and you can tell she doesn’t trust her from the way she’s eyeing the oliveblood. You walk towards the two girls. “Did you need me for something, Nepeta?”

“I,” says Nepeta, and then she sniffles softly. “I’m so pawfully sorry, I just… I got in an argument with Equius and I was wondering if you could go see how he is? I’m worried about him. He’s not doing so well after all the executions and I think the stress is getting to him. He doesn’t… I don’t think he wants to see me right now but I do want to at least know he’s alright.”

“Of course,” you tell her. “I can text you over Trollian afterwards.”

“If it’s alright,” says Nepeta, “I think it’s best if you tell me in person. I’ll be in my room.”

“I don’t know where that is.”

“Then I guess I’ll go with you.”

The two of you find Equius in his workroom, as always. He doesn’t respond to your knock, but you open the door anyway. Instead of tinkering with his projects or tearing apart his robots, he’s face down on the floor taking what appears to be a nap.

“Are you okay?” you ask him.

The blueblood startles violently, shooting upwards, his hands in a defensive position. Upon seeing you, his fear abruptly changes to disgruntlement. “You should knock,” he says.

“I did.”

“Well, you should knock once more if the host doesn’t hear the first time.”

“I did.”

“You did not.”

“I absolutely did.”

“I am certain you did not.”

“Whatever,” you say. “Irrelevant. You haven’t answered my first question.”

“You can hardly insist that I answer your question when you’ve blatantly disrespected me, a high ranking blueblood I will add, with your lies.”

This conversation is getting really stupid. You sigh. “Yes, fine, I am terribly sorry for having sullied the air around you with my disgusting lowblood lies. Can we get on with this, Equius?”

“There’s nothing to get on with,” he says cagily.

“You don’t often nap in your workroom,” you note, “seeing as I’m sure you’ve got a nice recuperacoon in your respite block to do exactly that minus all the neck cricks you’ll get from having slept on the cold, hard floor.”

“I was merely tired today.”

“I would have to be blind not to notice that you’re tired every day.”

Equius looks frustrated. “I work hard, as is necessary for one of my rank. It’s natural to be tired.”

“It may be natural to be tired, but it’s hardly natural to be distancing yourself from your moirail.”

Equius stiffens. “Where did you hear that?”

“Sources.”

“Whoever these unnamed sources are, they’re liars. It’s hardly me who’s refusing to be around Nepeta.”

“Bullshit. What were you doing unconscious in your workroom?”

“Working.”

“While unconscious.”

“That’s not… The nap wasn’t intentional. Regardless, I’ve been waiting for her to talk to me for weeks now. She always looks for me in my workroom first. If I truly were intent on avoiding her, I wouldn’t be hiding in the most obvious location.”

That’s… Actually logically sound. “You’re saying that Nepeta has been avoiding you for weeks, now?”

Equius looks so deeply unhappy that you deduce that must be it. Which begs the question of why the hell Nepeta is standing outside, pretending not to be there, instead of enthusiastically papping things out with her moirail.

“Okay, fine,” you say. “Just tell me how you’re doing.”

“I’m doing quite fine,” he says tightly.

“Sure,” you say disbelievingly.

You close the door behind you when you exit. Nepeta perks up, bounding towards you from her position against the wall. “How was he?” she whispers loudly.

You walk a little farther to ensure that you’re out of Equius’s earshot. Even with a door between you, you don’t want him hearing your conversation.

“You’ve been avoiding Equius,” you say flatly, and Nepeta pouts.

“I didn’t want to. I still don’t want to,” she says.

“Why, then?”

Nepeta bites her lip. “He’s her executioner,” she says.

“Does that bother you?”

“It scares me,” she answers.

“He only executes supposed traitors.”

“It’s not that,” Nepeta says. “Her Imperious Condescension has him pinned down. I don’t… I don’t want that. For him and for me.”

“You’re breaking off your moirallegiance because you’re scared of the Condesce.”

Nepeta closes her eyes. “Yes,” she says. “I- Yes, I guess so. It’s complicated, Dirk. I don’t… I don’t want to lose my moirail. He’s my favourite purrson around. It’s just that we disagree on some things and I don’t think we can bridge the gap between them. I can’t stand being around him like this… It hurts both of us. I hate that I have to keep my distance, but it’s better this way.”

You’re so painfully reminded of Aradia that you actually have to stop walking for a moment. You stare Nepeta down. Is she…?

“Can we go to my room?” Nepeta abruptly asks. You frown.

“Is it being monitored?”

She shakes her head.

Nepeta’s room is a whole lot different than you thought it’d be. For one thing, you weren’t expecting the various animal hides blanketing the floor like a single giant furry carpet. More perturbing is the right-hand wall, which is covered in drawings. Each drawing features two people, a quadrant symbol, and a box around them. A couple of them are circled, others written on. It is, in every sense of the word, strange as fuck.

“What…?” you ask, gesturing at the wall.

Nepeta grins, delighted. “My shipping wall!” she declares proudly.

You approach it to examine it further. As you do so, you notice that the figures bear some resemblance to the trolls you know. Nepeta, with her charming blue cat hat, is holding hands with a scribbly Equius, the white diamond symbol for moirallegiance proudly displayed overtop them. The box is circled. Circles for confirmed “ships”, you realize.

The shipping wall bears all manner of ships, from the plausible—Sollux and Aradia as moirails, for example (your chest hurts slightly to see the sad face drawn next to the square, the only indicator that the relationship was anything less than happy)—to the downright confusing—Equius auspicing between Nepeta and Sollux—and the absolute horrific—Sollux and the Condesce as matesprits. 

“That’s never going to happen,” you say.

“I hope not,” Nepeta says, “but in shipping, all ships must be treated as equals! Even if I don’t like it or if I don’t think it’s likely, I still have to list it as a pawssibility.”

You give the wall another once-over, and are horrified to see that you’re on the wall as well. It’s mainly you with Jane and what you guess is a hypothetical approximation of Roxy, being a blonde girl with dark triangle glasses like yours. However, you do notice a few ships featuring you and Sollux, you and the Condesce, and you and Equius. You wrinkle your nose at them but otherwise don’t comment.

“This one is my favourite out of all your ships,” Nepeta says, pointing at you and Jane as moirails. A couple of smileys have been drawn around the box.

“A whole lot better than that one, at least,” you shudder, indicating the box containing you and Roxy as matesprits. Nepeta frowns.

“Hmm. I don’t know. It’s been some time since you’ve seen her, right? She might be super beautiful now!” Right. You forgot that trolls have no understanding of incest. Normally, you’re grateful for the fact that troll romance seems lax compared to that of humans, but you suppose this is one occasion in which you’re glad there are clear boundaries.

“It’s a human thing,” you explain dismissively. “Not relevant, though. What is relevant is why you’re pushing Equius away. Tell me, Nepeta. What the fuck’s going on?”

Nepeta bites her lip. “Well, it’s… There’s a lot of pawssible answers to that. I don’t-”

You decide to figure out the most glaring option. “Are you a disciple of the Signless?”

“I…” Nepeta clearly struggles for something to say before sighing. “Yes. I am.”

“When did you join?”

“Half a sweep ago, I think.”

That surprises you. “You were working with Aradia, then?”

“A little,” she admits.

“Is that why you’re breaking up with Equius?”

“I’m not breaking up with him!”

“You literally stated minutes ago that=”

“I know! I just… Anyway, that’s not why I asked you to come here.” She sighs, then walks over to her recuperacoon. She gets on her knees and digs around underneath it until she comes up with three little trinkets, which she places in your hands. 

You analyze them. Three inexpensive-looking metal pins respectively shaped like a club, a spade, and a heart—the symbols for auspisticism, kismesitude, and matespritship. “Why?-”

“A friend gave them to me,” she explains. “She never found any use for them, since she told me her one romantic relationship never fell into any one quadrant, and she was happy with that. I wanted to give them to the trolls in my quadrants, but I only ever got to give my diamond to Equius.” She smiles, lost in the memory. “Oh, you should’ve seen him! He was terrified that he’d crush it. He had me pin it on for him. I could tell he was happy to wear it, though.”

The fondness with which Nepeta speaks of Equius is completely pure. You don’t detect any traces of bitterness the same way Aradia spoke of Sollux, or raw desperation, the way Sollux spoke of Aradia. By all means, you feel like Nepeta and Equius should have a healthy moirallegiance. The fact that Nepeta is forced to push him away doesn’t sit well with you. It feels like wasting something beautiful and perfect.

“I’m grateful for the gifts, of course, but why give them to me?” you ask.

Nepeta chews on her lip. “I don’t… I don’t think I’ll ever get the chance to give these to anyone. I thought it would be best to give these to you, so that you could have the chance to do so.”

“You’re not going to pull an Aradia and off yourself, are you?” you ask.

“No, but I think Her Imperious Condescension is suspicious of me. She doesn’t need a good reason to execute someone. The moment she becomes suspicious of someone, they’re dead. That’s just how it is. And I… I don’t want Equius to feel hurt when he has to kill me.”

Shit. That’s right. Equius is the executioner. If Nepeta is executed, he’ll be the one charged with shooting an arrow straight into her heart.

“Don’t say anything,” Nepeta pleads. “Please.” You realize she just passed up a prime time to use a cat pun. “Just take the pins. Give them to the special people in your life. I’ll feel better knowing that Meulin’s gift wasn’t wasted on me.”

You don’t know how to comfort her. You don’t know how to make this shitty situation any better. What you do know is that it’s rude to reject a gift. Nodding, you hold the pins in your clasped hands the same way one might hold something immeasurably precious. You don’t have the heart to tell her that you don’t think you can love in quadrants.

“Thank you, Nepeta,” you say, and she smiles at you as you leave.

*****

It’s not long after Nepeta gives you the pins when she’s dragged outside to meet her fate. 

It’s a pleasant day in early June. The sky is breathtakingly blue, the clouds light and fluffy, the sun beaming down benevolently. You’d almost call it a beautiful day had there not been the trampled and sickly yellow grass of the palace lawn reminding you of the horrors that had taken place, that were still taking place, that would still be taking place long into the future. Around the ever-present wooden frame, the ground is barren and stained a deep, dark brown from assortment of rainbow-hued blood that has spilled on the region.

The crowd is thick as ever. You know for a fact that they began thinning out during the cold, winter months. You also know for a fact that, a month after the executions became commonplace, so few people showed up that the Condesce began sending mandatory invites at random to citizens, trolls and humans both. Anyone who was handed a red card was to arrive at the next execution the moment it was announced on the radio or the television. If they ignored the call, the next execution they’d be attending would be their own.

The crowd is as thick as ever, and it allows Nepeta to be guided to the wooden frame unnoticed by the executioner, shrouded by too-tall heads and horns. That doesn’t last forever, though. The moment the crowd hushes and a legislacerator stands to explain that Nepeta Leijon is being executed for suspicious activities, Equius’s head snaps towards the direction of his moirail.

The moment he sees her, his entire body freezes. The arrow he’s holding snaps cleanly in two before dropping from his suddenly limp hand. The two moirails look at each other for one long, heart wrenching moment before Equius looks straight at the Condesce and says, “Please.”

He doesn’t seem surprised by Nepeta’s treason. They must have discussed it before, then. You assume this is what Nepeta meant by their disagreements on certain things that could not be breached.

The Condesce seems visibly displeased. “And they tell me professionalism ain’t dead,” she says. “Shorely you ain’t gonna disappointment me, Zahhak.”

Equius glances at his moirail, then at his ruler. “N-no, Your Imperious Condescension,” he stammers softly.

“Good,” she says. “Show me, then.”

Equius turns towards Nepeta. You see olive tears making their way down her cheeks. She’s standing silently, avoiding eye contact with her moirail, allowing herself to be shackled to the frame. Equius slowly draws out another arrow from his quiver and stares solemnly at Nepeta as if begging her to look up. She closes her eyes.

“Last words?” the Condesce asks.

“I am a disciple of the Signless,” Nepeta says softly, her eyes still firmly shut. “I believe in a world where blood doesn’t determine who I am and what I’m allowed to do. I believe in a world where I can pity or hate whomever I want and be not judged by society for it.” She blinks open her eyes, and her gaze locks with Equius’s. “I’m sorry, Equius,” she says, tears rolling down her face. “I pity you. I always will.”

“Give her shell,” the Condesce says.

Equius’s arms are noticeably shaking, his aim clearly unsteady. At this rate, if he shoots, he’ll miss Nepeta and hit the guard next to her-

He shoots. 

The guard goes down with an arrow in the neck.

Holy fuck.

Someone in the audience screams, and you think for a second that Equius must be in a thoroughly emotional state to miss so badly before he barrels into the wooden frame, grabbing his moirail and ripping her out of her restraints.

“Equius?”

He doesn’t respond, just tosses her forwards. She lands on her haunches like some kind of predatory cat. “Run!” he shouts at her, and her face hardens in understanding as she grabs him by the arm and pulls them both forwards, bounding away from the Condesce and her palace in a mad rush to escape.

“Shoot to kill!” the Condesce barks, and the palace guards guarding the entrances whip out weapons of their own. Guns, black and shiny in the suddenly-chilling June sun.

The crowd disperses as one, expanding in every direction, trolls grabbing other trolls as if parodying Equius and Nepeta, running and shoving and shouting, bowling into people and guards and wilting decorative shrubs. Over the loud and heated air, you can hear the crack of gunfire. Innocent civilians are falling, screaming, clutching at stomachs and throats and shoulders, vainly attempting to staunch the flow of almost comically colorful liquid steadily escaping their increasingly palid bodies. You are reminded of the time you and Roxy filled balloons with paint and threw them at unsuspecting passers-by. You think the scene in front of you is too graphic, too messy, as if it were in one of Jake’s crappy action movies and not a real-life massacre.

In the distance, you see Equius stumble, his arm suddenly streaked with bright blue. Nepeta steadies him. You think, as they disappear, trailed by furious soldiers firing bullet after bullet at their retreating backs, that you are glad you’re not there to see them fall. As far as you’re concerned, they will be alive forever, running together, reaching for freedom, framed against a magnificent blue sky.

The trolls outside are dying, but you are inside, safe (safety is relative), staring out an open window in shock. You can smell the carnage, can hear the last whimpers from the lips of the wounded, can taste the rot and decay and the salty tang of iron in the air. A wail rings out as a sobbing mother holds her bleeding child.

“This is what the disciples do,” says the Condesce. She’s still standing at the wooden frame. “They speak of ideals, of perfect worlds, then leave you drownin’ in the deep end to run away on their own. This is what they do to you. They leave you sick and dyin’, they provoke conflict and violence at every turn. The disciples are liars, and should you fall into their pretty fishing nets, you can expect this again.”

She turns to leave, then pauses. “Guards, know that whoever brings me the head of Equius Zahhak wins fifty thousand gold pieces.”

The grass is every colour of the fucking rainbow, and your favourite pair of moirails are as good as dead.

*****

The cloak Equius gave you before Aradia’s execution is still in your closet. You pin Nepeta’s gifts to the interior, the colorful quadrant symbols sharply contrasting against the sombre fabric. You scratch the spade by accident, and the black paint chips off to reveal the yellow-gold metal underneath. 

You’re so fucking sick of gold.

*****

The Condesce has been in a sour mood as of late. During your practices, she grabs a dummy and hooks it to the wall. You’re momentarily confused before she tosses a bow at you, along with a quiver full of arrows. “Right in the heart,” she tells you, and you fire again and again until your arms are trembling and your fingers numb from pulling on the bowstring. Your expression does not move an inch. 

“You’re a good buoy, guppy,” the Condesce says blandly. Her voice is lacking the casual endearment that it used to hold, at least when speaking to you. “Tomorrow, I want to see thirty bullseyes in a row.”

*****

golgothasTerror [GT] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT]  
GT: Dirk?  
GT: I know its late at night and im awfully sorry if im disturbing you but it says youre online and i am itching to talk to someone.  
TT: Don’t worry. I was doing some training exercises. Nothing overly important.  
TT: I’m all ears.  
GT: Its not that i dont understand that its dangerous outside for me. I understand perfectly! Its just that im so tired of being inside all the time.  
GT: By jove they wont even let me open the windows dirk. I havent gotten a whiff of the outdoors in months.  
GT: I miss it so much.  
GT: Ive never spent so much time away from it. I miss the smell of the woods and the feeling of the sunlight and cool breezes and im even craving the feeling of grass and dirt beneath my feet.  
GT: I feel like such a loiter-sack by myself here. All i can do is stand around and stare out the window.  
GT: I dont know how to stop fucking feeling this blasted way!  
GT: Its just so *endlessly* frustrating. 

You frown. True, you’ve been stuck inside for years now, but you’ve never quite felt the same longing for the outdoors that Jake is displaying. Perhaps it’s because you still have access to it in some capacity. You can always walk around the royal gardens, and you could watch the executions outside if you wanted to, provided you cover your face.

It’s late at night now. You glance at the window absentmindedly, wondering if Jake is gazing out at the same black velvet sky. A sudden idea strikes you, and you stay very still, deliberating the pros and cons in your head. By the time you make up your mind, heading out of your room and down the corridor, you’ve received multiple new messages from Jake.

GT: Strider?  
GT: Im sorry i suppose ive said too much again.  
GT: Jane is always chiding me for my ungentlemanly tendency to jabber on and on about my own problems.  
TT: It’s not that.  
TT: I’m just thinking.

“What are you doing?” a guard barks at you as you approach the garden.

“Stargazing,” you respond.

She shoots you a suspicious glare, but lets you out nonetheless.

GT: Might i ask about what?  
\-- timaeusTestified [TT] has sent a file: LightPollutionIsABitch.jpg --  
TT: The photo quality is admittedly shitty, but it’s the best I can come up with right now.  
GT: Is that…  
TT: The gorgeous Dersite night sky in all its smog-filled glory.  
GT: It certainly isnt quite as clear as the sky in prospit.  
TT: Picky about your stargazing locations?  
GT: Is that what youre doing right now? Stargazing?  
TT: In your honor, Sir English.  
GT: Oh.  
GT: Thats actually quite a swell way to pass time and i must say im glad that ive inspired you to do this.  
GT: I suppose ill leave you to it then?  
TT: Nope.  
TT: When I say “in your honor,” English, I mean I’m going to lie down here and stare up at the stars with you.  
GT: With me?  
TT: Where are you?  
GT: My bedroom.  
TT: Are the lights on?  
GT: Its night so yes.  
TT: Close them.  
GT: Er…  
TT: Trust me, English.  
GT: Alrighty then strider! Off go the lights!  
TT: Lie down on your bed.  
GT: *Lies down on my bed.*  
GT: What do i do now?  
TT: Look up.  
GT: Theres nothing there.  
TT: There are stars there.  
GT: I can see my ceiling pretty darn clearly and I’m quite certain that there arent any bloody stars there.  
TT: There are always stars there, English. You’re limiting yourself.  
TT: Think higher. Higher up, there are stars. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. Millions of stars and galaxies, millions of lightyears away, mere pinpricks of luminosity against the black backdrop of the night sky. You can’t see them right now, but you ought to know that they’re there.  
GT: I wish i could see them.  
TT: Can you imagine them?  
GT: Imagining the stars implies that there arent any stars to begin with. Like the stars dont exist outside of my mind.  
GT: Sometimes i worry that they dont.  
TT: Fine. Believe in them, then.  
GT: Believe?  
TT: Believe that the stars exist. Believe that they’re right above you. Believe that, if you try hard enough, you can see them.  
TT: You remember them clearly, don’t you? You ought to know what they look like.  
TT: Hold that image in your head and believe the sky above you looks like that.  
TT: Are you doing that?  
GT: Yes.  
GT: Bloody hell i missed them!  
TT: Can I admit something to you, English?  
GT: Go ahead strider.  
TT: I have never once gone stargazing before.  
GT: Thats goddamn *preposterous*!  
GT: Not even once?  
TT: That’s what never means.  
GT: Its just that i cant even begin to imagine a life like that.  
TT: Why, English, if stargazing is such a crucial part of one’s life, why don’t you help me with that?  
GT: Certainly dear mr strider!  
GT: Hmm…  
GT: Are the stars different in Derse?  
TT: I sent you an image, didn’t I?  
GT: Right! Wait a moment please.

You shift on your back, glancing up at the sky. The yellow light of streetlamps stains the inky blackness of the night, ruining the majesty of it somewhat. It’s pretty enough, you guess, the tiny glowing lights in the sky like miniscule tears in the rich velvet heavens, though you don’t quite understand the sort of awe that Jake speaks of when he mentions the stars. 

GT: Righty-o strider! Strap on for a real adventure through the ages!  
GT: Can you see the brightest star in the night?  
TT: That’s not terribly specific.  
GT: Its ever so slightly greenish.  
TT: They all look white to me.  
GT: Well they shouldnt. Are you wearing your shades dirk?  
TT: ...No.  
GT: That statement is officially baloney strider.  
GT: Why would you even wear them at night? Its already dark enough. Take them off right this instant!  
TT: Are you sure you’re willing to risk that?  
GT: What?  
TT: As Shakespeare has said, “As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven  
TT: Would through the airy region stream so bright  
TT: That birds would sing and think it were not night.”  
TT: Referring to Juliet, of course, but I think I can at least match her beauty, if not surpass it entirely. Just think of the damage my uncovered eyes could deal.  
TT: If you think the light pollution is bad now, wait ‘til you see this.  
GT: Balderdash strider! Be a proper gent now and quit quoting your bookish malarkey. We havent got all night.

You sigh, taking off your signature shades and sliding them on the collar of your shirt.

TT: Yessir. The glasses have been removed from my startlingly beautiful visage.  
GT: Are you lying down?  
TT: Yeah.  
GT: Get comfy mate because well be here for some time.  
GT: Now can you see the greenish star?

You squint at the sky. You notice a pulsating light that appears to be vaguely verdant. 

TT: I think so.  
GT: Good! Its called the green sun.  
TT: Creative as fuck right there.  
GT: Oh shush! Just listen to the story.  
TT: Operation ShuttingUp.exe commencing right now.  
GT: Its supposedly a relatively recent star. For years nobody ever saw it. Then a mere century ago it suddenly burst into existence outshining every other light in the sky.  
GT: According to my gramma there are several legends explaining the creation of the green sun. A popular one in prospit is that its a memorial to a pair of starcrossed lovers. They were separated and forced to marry according to the wants of their family. In their despair, they killed themselves on the same night, and the gods took pity on them, creating a meadow for them high in the heavens for them to love each other without obstacle.  
TT: I think I’ve heard of that one, actually. We have a more popular myth, though. TT: In Derse, we call that star Rosalin, after a myth in which a young girl sells her soul to a witch in order to save her dying mother. Her mother still dies anyway, and she’s cheated out of her soul, causing her to take up magic and pursue the witch through the skies forever. They’ve been locked in an intense magical showdown for decades, thus the flickering green light.  
GT: The star has a human name in derse?  
TT: One that’s vastly superior to “the Green Sun”, I might add.  
GT: Pish posh! Thats not important. I still have more stories to tell you about it.  
TT: Onwards, then.  
GT: Another story is about a brash young thief who steals a strange white orb from a blind seer. Shes convinced that the orb is what allows the seer to predict the future so she spends years trying to see something important in it when she suddenly remembers that the seer was blind! In her rage she throws the orb at the ground and it breaks sending blinding light cascading around her. In her hunger to know more, she opens one of her eyes and is blinded instantly leaving only the other eye working. The light pierces through the heavens and flies away. You can still see it on its voyage away from the earth.  
TT: That seems physically dubious at best.  
GT: When did magic have to obey the laws of physics?  
TT: Granted.  
GT: My grammas favourite story is about a girl and her dog. Her dog dies saving her from an intruder in her home. Shes devastated and begs the gods to bring him back. They cant do that but they decide to let him live on in the stars and the green sun is one of his eyes. He can see the girl and the girl can see him back for forever.  
TT: That honestly sounds creepy as fuck.  
TT: I mean, as much as that girl loved her dog, there are some activities that are best left unseen by outsiders.  
GT: To be quite frank with you i also thought the story was a little nerve wracking.  
GT: Sometimes its nice to just be alone without seeing anyone or being seen by anyone.  
TT: Is it?  
TT: I wouldn’t know; the only times I’m alone are when I’m recovering from having watched my loved ones die in front of me.  
GT: Oh.

Fuck. Nope. Back track, back track. That wasn’t even close to the right thing to say. That was probably the polar opposite of the right thing to say.

TT: Sorry, ignore that.

_Smooth, Strider._

TT: You’ve spoken of your grandmother’s favourite story, but not of your own. Why not share that?  
GT: Well dont get me wrong i think that would be absolutely spiffing but i may not want to?  
TT: Care to explain?  
GT: Its nothing against you certainly!  
GT: Its just that its a little embarrassing now that i think about it.  
TT: How so?  
TT: Imagine me raising a single thin, judgmental eyebrow at you right now.  
TT: Now, imagine me waggling both eyebrows.  
TT: That’s what I’m doing right now. I look like an idiot, and a guard is frowning at me suspiciously.  
TT: That’s how much I care about you, bro. I would waggle my eyebrows at the empty sky at the risk of my own reputation just for you.  
TT: If I were Roxy, I might even wonk at you a couple times, but I at least am elegant enough to keep my dirty implications subtle.  
GT: You strilondes and your lewd insinuations! I am thinking of nothing of that sort. I meant that i was embarrassed in the most innocent way!  
TT: Defensive, I see.  
TT: No judgment, bro. This is a judgment-free space. Feel free to spill any and all secrets.  
GT: Argh strider you are just insufferable sometimes!  
TT: Did you not enjoy this Strider-patented stargazing expedition?  
GT: I said insufferable sometimes not always.  
TT: Shame, I’ll have to try harder.  
GT: Strider!  
TT: Yeah, okay, sorry. Let me just wiggle back into my dapper gentleman fursuit.  
GT: Fursuit.  
TT: I am waggling my eyebrows at you.  
GT: IM ELEVEN.  
TT: As am I.  
GT: STRIDER!  
TT: Right, right. Laying off.  
GT: Thank you.  
GT: Its a fairly simple story.  
GT: Once there was a boy living in a humble village by himself since his mother has passed. Hes desperate and poor but he hangs on to his mothers favourite emerald necklace. One day he passed by a tree and found a crow caught in a snare. He pitied it and so he climbed up and freed it. The crow was grateful and despite not being very powerful offered to grant a single simple wish from the boy.  
GT: The boy has so many wishes that he cant choose at first. Eventually he asks the crow to take his mothers necklace and hang it in the stars so that everyone in world can look up and feel just a little happier seeing its beauty.  
TT: That’s actually surprisingly sweet.  
GT: I just like thinking that someone deliberately hung the green sun in the sky just so we could all share its beauty.  
GT: I like thinking something exists just to make people happy.

You find yourself thinking that you like Jake thinking that. He’s so painfully sincere sometimes in a way that lets all the kindness in him shine through like stellar light in a dark night sky.

TT: Consider your story stamped with the coveted Strider Seal of Approval.  
GT: No need to be sarcastic strider. I know its sappy!  
TT: Strangely enough, I was being completely sincere.  
GT: Oh.  
GT: Are you quite serious?  
TT: One hundred fucking percent.  
TT: I never joke about the Strider Seal of Approval.  
TT: You know, that seal is only offered to the raddest of rad masterpieces of art. It’s a rarity sought after by the world’s top artists, writers, directors, and musicians. Few even get close to recieving this sweet fuckin’ seal.  
GT: Alright alright! Im honored mr strider truly i am.  
GT: Its rather late right now strider.  
GT: I really do appreciate your efforts in helping me get through my monotonous house arrest.  
TT: Did it help at all?  
GT: It helped immensely chum!  
GT: Thank you. I mean it.  
TT: Anytime. You’re my best bro.  
GT: And i assure you that you are mine as well good fellow!  
GT: Goodnight dork!  
GT: Whoopsy daisy i mean dirk.  
GT: Um.  
GT: Im sorry. This is a little awkward isnt it.  
TT: Still better than “Dick.”  
TT: Judging from your silence you seem to be somewhat flustered by your mishap.  
TT: Know that I’m less offended and more amused, if anything.  
GT: Im not sure thats a good thing!  
TT: It’s a good thing. Trust me.  
GT: *Nervously cleans my glasses lenses with a cloth.*

You snort.

TT: ‘Night, English.  
GT: Goodnight dirk.

*****

Fact: Jake English is your best bro. 

Another fact: Jane Crocker is probably your best friend.

Also a fact: You don’t feel the same way about Jake and Jane.

Sure, you could wax poetic about the distinctions between one’s best bro and one’s best gal pal, or whatever you and Jane are, but you still feel that, in essence, the relationships should be similar. 

They’re not. 

True: Jake English is your age. Jane is two years older.

True again: Jake English is a boy. Jane is a girl.

Still true: You want to see Jake English smile. Not just make him smile, the way you’re content to do with Jane, but really see the smile spreading across his stupidly happy face.

_It’s funny,_ you think, _that I feel like a different person each time I interact with someone new._

You shelf your observations for later. You don’t have the time to go down a philosophical rabbit hole on whether or not the self as a stable, solid object exists.

*****

The shouting of the throng of citizens in front of the palace is so loud that you hear it while you’re styling your hair in the washroom. Puzzled, you duck out of the room to find a window. 

You can’t see much in the crowd—just the heads and shoulders of trolls screaming and spitting furiously into the hot summer air. Frustrated and curious, you quickly wrap up your morning routine and hurry down to the palace entrance just in time for the doors to open. You scramble back as the Condesce storms in. Behind her are two blueblood guards pushing a short, furious, hooded troll.

The troll is loud and flails uselessly against the iron-solid grips leading him to his fate. He swears aggressively, his voice carrying through the otherwise silent halls, his increasingly repugnant metaphors and insults bouncing off the golden floors and walls, slapping all the onlookers silly. “Fuck you and fuck everything you stand for, you disgusting, rotted, bulgelicking, nookfaced piece of salmon shit!” he shouts as the guards drag him along. “Go fuck yourself right in the ass with your own shitty trident! I’d rather tear out my own glance nuggets with my claws and drink them from a fucking filial pail than have to look at your repulsive interior decor!”

There is only one person in the three kingdoms you know who can cuss like that.

You don’t get to see his face before he disappears down the hall, likely to end up in the palace dungeons. You don’t need to. You are certain that Kanaya was correct in her assumptions.

Although you’re sure it’ll be a temporary stay, it appears that Karkat Vantas is right here in the palace with you, perhaps to be kept under lock and chain until the Condesce finds a new executioner.

Fuck. You’re going to have to watch him die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Death, blood, gore.
> 
> First up, I'm going to have to apologize to you guys. I know it's been a while since I last updated. I even thought for some time that I'd give up on this story, but I genuinely do want to get this thing finished. There's a lot of stuff I have planned ahead that I really want to write and that I think you guys'll enjoy reading: plot twists, angst, shippy stuff, all that jazz. Still, I want to be honest with my updating schedule. The truth is that I'll likely be unable to update nearly as frequently as I did before. The main reason for that is school, but I have loads of extracurriculars and other things I need to attend to, not to mention I have an original writing project that I've been working on recently and that I really want to complete as well. February and March in particular are packed for me in terms of work, and I doubt that I'll be able to get any decent writing time in. I'll try my best to update in the next two months, but it's possible that I just won't be able to finish the next chapter before then.
> 
> Basically, the next update might take some time. Don't worry—I'm not abandoning this story. However, updates will be slower. I'm sorry about the inconvenience of it all. I completely understand the frustration of having to wait long stretches of time for a new chapter. Still, I'm hoping you guys can bear with me. I can't promise that the story ahead is worth it (I mean, I sure as hell hope it is), but I will say that there's plenty of delightful (or painful, depending on your perspective) stuff to look forward to.
> 
> Thanks,  
> potassiumPotato


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